


From the Ground Up

by fencer_x



Category: Sekai-ichi Hatsukoi
Genre: Blow Jobs, Drabble Collection, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Phone Sex, Switching, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-04
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-10-25 16:46:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 50
Words: 110,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fencer_x/pseuds/fencer_x
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of loosely-termed drabbles touching on different points in the relationship between Yokozawa Takafumi and Kirishima Zen as well as fleshing out their little family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Motion

Life had always seemed to pass by at a frantic pace, each day blurring seamlessly into the next at breakneck speed, names and faces swirling together into a muddy, confusing mixture, buffeted along with niceties and pleasantries and handshakes and smiles that never quite reached his eyes. It had been taxing, but rewarding in some way, and at the end of the day he'd always had Sorata to come home to or Masamune waiting a phone call away, eager to be goaded into going out drinking even if it took two or three tries.

But lately, rather than being swept along, he'd felt almost like…he'd caught the rhythm of the motion, riding the wave of activity throughout the day smoothly and with relatively few bumps in the road. He felt his mood lightening, his snippy retorts delivered with less bite but just as much demanding, drawing responses just as respectful as usual but tinged with less abject fear.

"Careful," Kirishima warns lightly, digging his thumbs into Yokozawa's shoulders through his suit when they've stolen a moment after Henmi leaves for the day and they're the last ones left on the sales floor. "Word'll get out that the wild bear of Marukawa has lost his bite…"

Yokozawa grunts in response, letting his lids flutter shut as he indulges Kirishima in his whims. "Let them say that. They'll quickly find out the hard way what a crock of shit it is."

Kirishima's laughter is light in his ear, and Yokozawa lets out a soft _oof_ when he stops his massage and instead leans forward, looping his arms around Yokozawa's neck and draping himself across his back. "Good. I'd hate to lose that adorable little furrow between your brows entirely."


	2. Cool

_Super cool biz_ they liked to market it as, but all it really meant to Yokozawa was _we're following the energy conservation campaign and keeping the air-conditioners shut off until it's unbearable, so bring a fan and stop whining_. He slumped back in his chair, having doffed the sports jacket he'd been unable to part with, and tried not to think about how his sweat-soaked shirt was gluing him to the back of the chair.

Kirishima-san had tried to prod him into wearing something even more casual, offering a polo shirt he'd dug out of his closet and then promptly beaning Yokozawa in the face with it when he'd snubbed it. "A man should wear a proper suit to the office," he'd groused, but a twinge of longing had nonetheless rattled through him as he toed on his loafers while watching Kirishima-san pull on a light, short-sleeved kariyushi to go with his slacks and sneakers. He'd looked like crap; but then, editors didn't have to interact with clients on a daily basis (and their authors tended to look even worse). Yokozawa was in sales, and even if he protested that his dressing down was in compliance with Marukawa's energy conservation efforts, it still grated, the way he could feel the calculating gazes of strangers on him, silently judging.

He frantically waved the hand fan in front of his face, brows knitting in frustration. Summer _sucked_.

On his desk, his cell phone buzzed, scurrying across the surface with its vibrating like it had a mind of its own. Yokozawa frowned in confusion and reached out, snapping it open when the display flashed that he had a new email.

 **Sender:** Hiyo  
 **Title:** Oniichan!  
 **Body:** Grandma gave me some popsicles to bring home! Let's have some for dessert after dinner tonight!

Attached was a blurred image taken with a shaky hand, but he could still make out Hiyo's pigtails--he'd done them himself that very morning--as she grinned broadly around the remains of a half-eaten, dripping red popsicle. Yokozawa snorted at the image and shook his head, snapping his phone shut and tossing it back onto the table to reach instead for a stack of proposals he'd scavenged from editors scattered throughout the building, being sure to put off Onodera's for last because, civil though they might have agreed to be with one another, the little brown-noser still irritated the shit out of him.

But even as his gaze flitted over the spreadsheets and carefully formatted forms before him, his mind was drawn back to the now slightly cramped apartment a twenty-minute walk from the Marukawa offices where Hiyo was probably boiling some noodles for hiyashi soba like she'd promised the both of them before heading out that morning.

The old him would've felt a stir of unease at how comfortable he'd grown, his previous fervor and attitude cooled and quelled under the roof he now shared with the Kirishima family. Kirishima-san tempered his anger and calmed his prickly nature with his easy, knowing smile and a hand ruffling through his hair like a child, and Hiyo could bring out the strangest, almost parental responses in him, setting him to lecturing her on such topics as talking to strangers and punctuality implying respect. If Masamune could see him now, he'd probably have words for Yokozawa; several of them, and that was _after_ he picked himself up off the ground from laughing his ass off.

He sighed and tossed aside the proposals, reaching for his hand fan again and granting himself a few minutes' respite. It really was too damn hot--

 _bzzz bzzz bzzz_

His phone buzzed again--another incoming message--and Yokozawa's hand shot out, flipping the screen up to see what Hiyo had decided to spam him with this time. Instead, it was from Kirishima-san. Unexpected, but not unwanted necessarily. Nevertheless, he kept his features schooled, as if trying to keep the guy from somehow sensing that he was not _un_ happy to receive a message in the middle of the work day.

 _Let's go to the beach this weekend. Hiyo wants to use her new bathing suit, and you could stand some sun._

Yokozawa snapped his phone shut again with a frown, wiling his heart to stop that ridiculous skipping-a-beat thing it tended to do when Kirishima-san suggested something stupidly domestic and familial like going out together, the three of them. It was somehow worse than when he dragged Yokozawa off just the _two_ of them.

Summer well and truly _sucked_ …and yet things like this, frustrating as they were, made the heat a bit more bearable.


	3. Young

"Ah, they grow up _so_ fast, don't they?" Kirishima-san commented lightly, waving at Hiyo from across the schoolyard where he stood in the shade of a sakura tree, one hand settled at Yokozawa's waist in a manner he probably didn't even realize was bordering on possessive. Yokozawa could feel his gaze wax worried as it lingered on his hunched shoulders, Kirishima-san ducking his head down to try and lock eyes with him. "…Are you-- _fuck_ are you actually _crying_?"

" _Fuck you,_ " he groused, frustrated, in response, and took a deep breath in a desperate effort to keep the heaviness building behind his eyes from flowing over. He knocked his head back and closed his eyes, feeling the sun dappling his face where it peeped through the thick, pink blossoms that waved on branches above them. "I'm surprised you _aren't_."

Kirishima-san snorted, the sound light and amused. "Do I look like the type to cry at his daughter's graduation?"

"Don't most parents?"

"Yeah, sure, but--from _elementary school_?" He raised a brow when Yokozawa finally locked eyes with him. "Face it. You're just a big softie and this whole thing--" He waved a hand to gesture to Yokozawa's full body, "--is an elaborate joke."

Yokozawa ignored the jab and turned to stare at the little girl he'd grown so close to over the years, treating her with no less care and compassion than he might his own child, and earning as much love and affection from her as she bestowed upon her own father (more, really, much to Kirishima-san's chagrin). It seemed a sappy thing to get worked up over, but the thought of Hiyo donning her new school uniform for the first time, bringing home schoolwork and prodding Yokozawa for more and more tutoring, joining clubs and going off on field trips, _dating_ \--he shuddered visibly at the last one, earning a concerned, "What's wrong?" and shook his head, brushing off the worry.

"…You've gotta have a heart of stone not to get at least a _little_ choked up at your kid going off to middle school…" He pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. "She's not even mine and I'm making a scene."

"You're adorable when you make scenes, have I mentioned that?"

"You think everything I do is some variation of adorable; I've stopped caring."

"If you'd really stopped caring, you wouldn't be blushing like you are right now." He dropped his voice and cocked his head to the side, making as if he were just casually glancing around. "It's fine with me either way; I'm totally up for finding new ways to drive you crazy."

"Every minute spent with you winds up driving me crazy," he snapped grumpily, shifting in place to step out of Kirishima-san's embrace and wander over to a small stone bench.

Kirishima's breath was hot against his ear, "Is that an invitation, Yokozawa? This is a _school_ \--"

Yokozawa slapped at his neck where the breath tickled and whirled around, hissing, "That was-- _no_ , of course not, god." He huffed softly. "It's _Hiyo's graduation_."

Kirishima-san rolled his eyes, shoving his hands in his pockets. "So you keep reminding me. Did you forget I had to sit through that boring-as-hell ceremony, too? I noticed."

"Then--you're really fine with it?"

"You're worrying and fretting enough for the both of us. I just decided to leave you in charge of all that. Now I get to play the proud papa, like always." He bent down into a squat, resting on his haunches and setting his chin propped up in his hand as he watched Hiyo chatter excitedly with her friends. This wasn't a sad day for them, as they'd likely all be attending the same middle school as well for the most part; moping, it seemed, was reserved for parents and parents' significant others. "Besides, she's just going to keep growing and getting older. If I let myself think too long on it, I'll never be able to accept it. Best to put it off for as long as possible."

"Ha? How the hell does that make any sense?"

Kirishima-san winced as he rose again, swinging his arms to relieve the tension. "Because--when she's grown up and gone away and I feel like I've lost her for good…you'll still be around to take care of me. I hear you're pretty good at that."

Yokozawa frowned, sadness furrowing his brow at the thought. "…And what, I won't be sad, too? She may as well be my kid; I've spent the last couple of years helping you raise her, after all."

"She's definitely your kid, Yokozawa." He cocked his head. "You're crying over her."

"I'm-- _not_ crying. Do I look like I'm crying? I got choked up is all."

Kirishima-san smiled and shook his head, reaching over and grabbing the loose suit material pooling at Yokozawa's elbow to tug him forward. "Let's go get our kid and go home. She won't stay young forever."


	4. Now

Yokozawa winced as he knocked back the last of his drink, staring into the empty glass forlornly just to make sure he'd drained it of every last drop of alcohol. "So--when?"

Masamune shrugged. "Haven't even found a place yet. The contracts on our apartments don't come up until June--so I guess around then? Maybe July?" He shook his head and took a swig of his own beer. "Moving in July. That's gonna be a bitch."

Yokozawa snorted, masking the awkward atmosphere with his usual prickliness. "Your own fault. And--" He raised a warning finger. "Don't you dare think about asking me to help."

Masamune echoed the gesture, smiling softly as he swirled the remaining contents of his beer in its bottle. "I wouldn't dream of tearing you away from…what's her name? Saori?"

" _Hiyori_ ," Yokozawa ground out, waving down the bartender and raising his glass. "Don't pretend like you care."

"I care," was the simple response, and Yokozawa ignored the easy way with which it fell from Masamune's lips. "…Things are going good, then?"

"Things are going good between you and Onodera?"

He raised a brow. "...Since when do you care how things are going between me and him?"

"Since when do you care how things are going between me and _him_?" Masamune conceded the point, nodding as the bartender arrived with Yokozawa's drink.. "…They're going as well as can be expected."

"Getting laid on a regular basis has certainly done wonders for your attitude at work." Yokozawa choked on his drink, and Masamune smiled into the lip of his beer bottle, knocking back the last of it. "I'll have to put in a good word with Kirishima-san the next time we've got a production run decision meeting. Maybe you'll be more lenient with the numbers."

Yokozawa glared at him, passing the flush to his cheeks off as due to the alcohol. It was never going to feel quite right, having these kinds of conversations with Masamune. There would probably always be a dull throbbing in his chest whenever Masamune's lips curled up at one side like they tended to do when the conversation turned to discussing Onodera's latest screw-up, and Yokozawa would never get used to the knowledge that after one more drink on both their parts, Masamune would take the Mita line out to Sengoku and annoy the shit out of Onodera for a few hours before they turned in together, confident in their feelings for one another.

It wasn't that he envied their love. Not anymore, really. It was just…even if he'd long since come to accept it, there was still a part of him that would always pine for what might have been, always imagine that, if Onodera hadn't shown up, he might have been the one Masamune went home to after sharing a drink with a colleague.

He closed his eyes and shook his head, bringing the glass to his forehead and wincing at the cool shock.

"Oi, you okay?" Masamune, voice tinged with concern. He could always tell when something was bothering Yokozawa, even if he rarely understood exactly what that something was. "Should we make it an early night?"

Yokozawa snorted, bringing the glass to his lips and knocking half the contents back in one gulp. "I'm not leaving this bar until I stumble out of it. Now get another beer."

* * *

"I'm home~" Yokozawa called, louder than he should have, and frowned down at his feet when his shoes refused to slip off properly, nearly causing him to topple forward while he tried to multitask, hanging up his coat at the same time. "Oi, Kirishima~" He burped softly and covered his mouth, stifling a little gasp as he recalled distantly that it was past 10 and Hiyo was probably asleep. "Kirishimaaaa," he hissed again, shuffling inside properly and keeping himself steady with a hand along the wall as he made his way towards the living room.

He found Kirishima set up comfortably on the couch, two stacks of papers on the low coffee table before him and a third in his lap that he was staring at rather scornfully, his eyes hard over the wire-rimmed glasses he only wore at home for particularly troublesome draft checks ("They make me look old"). He didn't glance up when Yokozawa dragged himself inside, nor did he bother scooting over to make room on the couch when Yokozawa moved to stand near him, kicking his ankles for attention.

"Oi, I've been calling you."

"So I heard."

"Move over."

"There's a chair right behind you."

"I wanna sit by you though." Kirishima sighed, and Yokozawa would've leapt for joy if he weren't 95% sure doing so would result in him managing to topple over and sustain a handsome concussion for his trouble. "Move--or I'll fall on top of you." He punctuated this threat by pressing a bit of his weight into Kirishima's shoulder, and was rewarded with a shove backwards as Kirishima threw him a glare but complied, scooting one cushion over to leave Yokozawa a wide berth. He snorted at the expression. "You're in a mood tonight."

"This manuscript…it's shit, and I really don't feel like griping out Ijuuin-sensei for the the third time this month. Maybe if I handcuff him to that newbie he seems so fond of he'll get his act together and give me something I can work with." He raked his gaze over Yokozawa for the first time, brows furrowing as he gave an experimental sniff. "…Are you _drunk_?"

Yokozawa flopped backwards, letting his head loll to the side so he could keep Kirishima in his sights. "It would appear I am."

"…You said you had to work late."

A shrug. "I did. And then afterwards I had a drink."

"Alone?"

He snorted. "The last time I drank alone I got stuck with you. I'm not stupid enough to do it twice." He studied his fingernails, suddenly finding them far more fascinating than meeting Kirishima's worried, probing gaze. "Takano was stuck waiting to hand off a draft to the printers over at Emerald, so we stopped for a drink after I finished."

He heard Kirishima take in a sharp breath, but he said nothing, and after a moment's silence, the room was once again filled with the soft scratching of Kirishima's pen across the stack of papers in his hand.

Yokozawa put up with it for another thirty seconds before grousing, "And now you're pissed at me."

"I didn't say anything."

"That's how I know you're pissed." The scratching stopped, and Yokozawa shifted his gaze to find Kirishima staring down at a manga panel, having stopped writing in the middle of a comment. "It was just a drink."

"I _said_ I didn't say anything."

"It's been months since he…" Yokozawa swallowed. "Anyways, it was a _drink_. You don't have to look at me like that." His relatively good mood on the heels of the drinks he'd shared had all but disappeared with the argument.

"…Like what?"

"Like--" he hedged, running a hand through his hair and glancing off to the side. "Like you don't trust me."

"Maybe I don't trust him."

"What the _hell_ \--that's probably the most ridiculous thing you've ever said." Kirishima frowned, like he understood this perfectly well, and Yokozawa huffed, annoyed. "He was my friend before anything else. It's not a crime to want to keep him as that, even now."

"I never said it was."

"And your passive-aggressive shit is starting to annoy me!" He twisted in place and braced one arm against the back of the couch, angling himself so that he was facing Kirishima almost head-on, giving the guy little recourse but to pay attention to him. "I don't mind if you get jealous--but I'd rather you do it when there's a good reason to, and not now when all I did was have a drink with a friend--"

"--a friend you slept with and were in love with for ten years--"

"--a friend you _told_ me I didn't have to stop loving. Or was that bullshit? Cause whether you meant it or not, I _did it_." He was flushing now, but he'd stopped caring. "I stopped loving him like that--for _you_ , idiot."

Kirishima looked away, not rising to Yokozawa's challenging words. He was always so frustratingly calm at times like this. "…I know I'm being an asshole."

"Good, then we don't have to argue about that."

He wiped his eyes in fatigue. "I don't want to argue about _anything_ ; I just--worry, is all." He tapped his pen against his papers, lips pursed out longer and thinner than usual.

"…I thought I was supposed to be the one prone to irrational jealousy."

This managed to pull a reaction, and the corners of Kirishima's lips twitched like they did whenever he was holding himself back. "Maybe you're rubbing off on me." He let the statement stand and locked eyes with Yokozawa just in case he somehow managed to miss the dripping innuendo.

Yokozawa just rolled his eyes. "Or maybe you're an idiot who doesn't understand plain Japanese: I wouldn't be here every night if I weren't 110% devoted to you and your crazy family, okay? I've gotten attached to you, so just…stop cooking up weird scenarios in your head where you convince yourself that I'm going to dump you for someone who doesn't even _want_ me--"

"He's an idiot not to want you," Kirishima complained desperately, reaching up to pull Yokozawa's tie free, tugging him down--but Yokozawa resisted, snapping a hand out and grabbing Kirishima's wrist to hold him off.

"You're in no position to be calling people idiots." He pursed his lips, trying to stay angry but instead just fighting sounding too pathetic. "Sure--I loved him, and you seem to understand that perfectly well--but you apparently are having some trouble grasping the fact that it's _past tense_ and that right now, all I want to do at the end of the day is come home to dinner cooked by Hiyo and then crawl into bed with you and wipe that smug look off your face that you get every time you think you're getting lucky."

"That's because I always get lucky," he crowed confidently, the very look in question plastered across his features.

"You're an asshole, have I mentioned that?" Kirishima just shrugged in a _what're you gonna do about it?_ way, and Yokozawa huffed in annoyance, letting his gaze wander. Kirishima still had his fingers threaded through Yokozawa's tie, slowly but surely easing him forward. "...So stop worrying like that. You're the one I love now, idiot." He let himself be pulled close and brushed noses to whisper against Kirishima's lips. "Stop doubting my love; I don't doubt yours."

After all, it was kind of stupid to doubt something that the guy took every opportunity to remind Yokozawa of.


	5. Change

"Your kid's annoying," Yokozawa huffed, amusement evident in his voice as he slipped onto the couch cushions beside Kirishima. "Demanded two stories before she agreed to cut me some slack and go to bed."

"She's your kid now, too," Kirishima reminded calmly, keeping his gaze focused on the topmost page of a stack of storyboard panels, scribbling something in the margin with a frown.

"Huh?" Yokozawa returned, voice pitched up in confusion, and he glared at Kirishima for a long moment, but was returned no explanation and so he gave up, crossing his arms and continuing on his tear. "Get her a nanny or something if you want someone to fill her head with fairy tales about princesses and knights and shit."

"You could always tell her about the time you got drunk at a bar and nearly slept with her papa. I love that one."

"Fuck you." By now, though, the complaint was growing toothless, and a comfortable silence settled between them, the only sound in the room the steady _scritch scratch_ of Kirishima's pen scrabbling across the paper, following by shuffling as he moved on to the next section.

Yokozawa studied him with a sidelong glance; since their spectacular blow-up and subsequent frictious make-up, relatively little had changed in their relationship with one another--Kirishima still made a nuisance of himself prodding Yokozawa into stopping by one of his frequent haunts for a drink after work, his cell phone inbox was still flooded with no less than five messages a day from Hiyo describing her lunch or after-school snack or a new dish she learned to make and would Yokozawa-oniichan like to make it with her later, and he still managed to shrug off Kirishima's admittedly more frequent nuanced insinuations with curt retorts (even if now his pulse raced a bit hotter than it had before).

No, instead all of the changes came in the _little_ things; in the way Kirishima caught his eye stepping out of the shower while Yokozawa was brushing his teeth and pulled him in for a soft kiss, in the way their fingers would find their way to twine together beneath the blanket when Hiyo insisted they all take time in the evening to watch some Pixar flick she'd conned Kirishima into renting, in the way Yokozawa started to forget this wasn't his home and that he needed to drop by his apartment and grab the unopened bag of cat food sitting under his sink rather than picking up a new bag from the grocery story by the station.

And then there was the ring…or lack thereof.

Without pausing to reflect on the consequences, Yokozawa reached out and gently took Kirishima's free hand in his own, turning it palm-up and tracing the lifeline with his finger before moving to inspect the delicate bones along the back. Kirishima wasn't an artist, but he still held a great deal of power in these hands, the power to create and destroy, to build up an author's dreams or tear them down off their high horse--the power to lay a soothing hand at Yokozawa's back or brush the hair from his neck to kiss his nape, undoing him anew.

He noticed distantly that the scratching had stopped and glanced up--meeting Kirishima's calm, calculating gaze. Swallowing, Yokozawa's fingers clenched around Kirishima's own before he realized he was probably hurting the guy, and he forced himself to look away--back down at the point of contention between them. "…Your ring."

"What about it?"

"…You took it off. The other day, I noticed…"

Kirishima snorted softly and pulled his hand back, turning it over before himself as if to inspect the truth of Yokozawa's assertion. "So I did."

Yokozawa frowned at the pithy response. "Where is it?"

The corners of Kirishima's lips quirked up. "…Why?"

Yokozawa let himself flop back against the couch. "Nevermind."

"You really want to know?"

"No."

"It's in a ring box on the top-right shelf in the bathroom, up high so Hiyo won't find it."

"I said I didn't care."

"Yes, it was obvious from the way you asked me _where is it_."

Yokozawa scoffed and moved to push himself up off the couch--surely there were documents he could busy himself with reviewing in the half hour or so of free time he had before he needed to turn in--but Kirishima stopped him, that ringless left hand gripping his wrist tightly. He gave a shake for show, pursing his lips. "Let go."

"I'll put it back on if you want. I can say I took it to a jeweler to be cleaned."

Yokozawa flushed and gave a hard jerk to his arm, but Kirishima's grip was sure, and he instead nearly found himself falling forward on top of the man; he really needed to start working out--because this was getting ridiculous. "I never said anything like that--" He cut himself off, ceasing his squirming, and when he huffed a sigh of defeat, standing with shoulders slumped and staring down at Kirishima, at last the grip on his wrist loosened, then released. "…I never said anything like that. But you didn't have to take it off, you know."

Kirishima shrugged, turning back to his papers. "I know." He cleared his throat and started penning a new note on the top-most panel. "I just figured it was time for a change."


	6. Wash

"Hiyo in the bath?" Kirishima called over his shoulder as Yokozawa shuffled into the kitchen, pausing at the dining table to gather up the few dishes left and bring them over to where Kirishima stood at the sink, arms half hidden in suds.

"So she claims." He dropped the few leaves of lettuce left in the salad bowl into the burnable garbage and furtively slipped one of the half-eaten tails of his grilled fish into Sorata's bowl. "I made sure she left her phone in her room this time; don't want it to be thirty minutes later again and she hasn't turned the water on even."

"There's our Mama." He flinched when Yokozawa lightly punched him on the shoulder as he sidled up close, slipping the last of the dishes into the sudsy pool in the sink. "Grab a towel."

"Huh?" He followed Kirishima's nod towards one of the dishtowels hanging around a drawer handle. "Oh--right."

"We've got a print-run decision meeting on Monday, you know." He handed Yokozawa a measuring cup.

"I know."

"And of course you'll support my decision for a production run of 250,000, right?"

"I think your head's going soft in your old age, Kirishima-san." He replaced the now-dry measuring cup above the stove. "In what reality is that in any way an appropriate amount for a first-time author?"

Kirishima shrugged and handed him a frying pan. "I just assumed a first-rate salesman such as yourself would have _no_ trouble clearing that amount from the shelves." He followed this with a handful of chopsticks. "Or have I been sleeping with someone of lesser talents for the past few months?"

Yokozawa jerked the utensils from his hands, angrily sopping them dry before tossing them into a drawer with the rest of the forks and spoons. "Bait me all you want, I'm not helping you fluff up some newbie author's ego and your own at the same time. Distribution would never go for it. You'll be lucky to get even 200,000."

"If you loved me, you'd get me 250,000."

"If _you_ loved _me_ , you wouldn't force me to sell them."

"Then I'm afraid we are at an impasse, Yokozawa-san."

"Give me the fucking dishes to dry."

"I don't trust you to dry them anymore." He reached around and tugged another dishtowel down. "I wouldn't want to inconvenience you, after all."

Yokozawa glared fiercely before shoving his hand into the murky water to feel around for a plate, rinsing it carefully before drying it himself. "You act like you're 12 sometimes, you know?"

"You act old enough for the both of us." He calmly fished out another plate, wiping it down. "The meeting would go a lot quicker if we presented a united front."

"I'm sure it would; let's ask for 200,000 and be done with it, then."

"240,000."

"200."

"225."

"200."

"I don't think you quite understand how compromise works, Yokozawa."

"I don't think you quite understand how _I_ work." He reached over and grabbed the last dish out of Kirishima's own hands, quirking his brows in triumph as he passed the towel over it quickly before Kirishima could retaliate, placing it in a stack with the others. "You don't get to use our relationship as levera--"

He found himself jerked forward, a dishtowel looped around his neck and pulling him headlong into Kirishima, who swiftly canted their lips together, slipping a tongue inside to stifle any further plotting on either of their parts to secure appropriately sized print-runs. Yokozawa released a muffled groan, reaching up to grasp weakly onto Kirishima's wrists and try to pull him off--but it was obvious he wasn't putting up anything more than a protesting front.

Kirishima eventually released him just as he was starting to lose feeling in his knees, leaning back against the curve of the counter for support, and quirked his lips up in amusement at the state he'd rendered Yokozawa in. "…I'm not letting you sleep tonight til you agree to 250,000."

Yokozawa's frown deepened, as it tended to do when they had conversations like this, and he licked his lips. "…I thought we were down to 225."

Kirishima cocked his head to the side and leaned forward to whisper, "I don't think you quite understand how _I want to fuck you_ works, Yokozawa." Yokozawa felt a rush of adrenaline flood through him, excitement already rising--but he clamped down on the reaction, and in the next instant Kirishima had leaned to the side and raised his voice, "I don't hear any water running, Hiyo!"

The towel loosened around his neck, and Kirishima brushed past him with a squeeze to his shoulder to go see what was keeping Hiyo from her bath, leaving Yokozawa to contemplate just _how the hell he was going to sell 250,000 copies_.


	7. Need

It was late. Really late. Late enough that it was tomorrow already. Late enough that the only sounds reverberating through the quiet, slumbering apartment of the Kirishima household was the soft hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the occasional bark of a dog in the distance countered with a sputtering engine as a neighbor several streets over sped away.

That…and the soft creak of the door to the guest room swinging open, slowly but not hesitantly--coupled with faint footfalls padding across faux wood-paneled flooring. Yokozawa let the intruder think himself silent and cunning for as long as he could stand it, grousing in a rough whisper when they'd approached near enough that his voice wouldn't be lost in the room, "…What the hell are you doing here?"

"Scoot over."

Instead, Yokozawa rolled from his side where he'd been facing away onto his back so that he could prop himself up on elbows and stare incredulously at Kirishima. "… _Excuse me_?"

Kirishima shoved him lightly on the shoulder, repeating, "Don't ask questions, just do it."

"I am _not_ \--" he started, and reached up with one hand to grip him firmly around the wrist when he moved to shove Yokozawa again, grunting at the force he had to exert to keep steady. "I'm not _scooting over_. What do you want? Do you even know what time it is?"

"Do _you_?" And he could _hear_ the amusement in his voice, completely inappropriate for any time of day, let alone now.

"Late, that's what time it is. We've got work in the morning--what're you still doing up?"

"Couldn't sleep," he confessed simply, and even in the dark Yokozawa couldn't miss the disguised fatigue in his voice; he was telling the truth. "Scoot over; let me sleep with you."

" _Huh?_ " he practically yelped, then clutched the comforter tighter around himself in case Kirishima got any ideas. "Hell no--why should I--"

"Am I ever going to be able to get you to just _do something_ when I ask you to instead of bitching about it like you are now? I'm tired."

"Then--take a sleeping pill or something. What does sleeping with me have to do with--"

"I'm not asking to marry you, god--I just want to sleep here."

Yokozawa narrowed his eyes, even though it hardly did him any good seeing as they couldn't make out more than each other's vague outlines. "What, you want the bed?"

"The bed; and you in it."

" _Kirishima-san_ \--" he started, a note of long-suffering fatigue seeping into his tone. "It's the _middle of the night_ , we can't do--" He searched for appropriate phrasing, then licked his lips, "Just--I'm tired, and you're tired, and we really should be _sleeping_ right now."

"We would be if you'd _scoot the fuck over_. Do I need to type up a memo or something and fax it to Henmi?" Knowing Kirishima, he'd do it, too. "I believe I've already demonstrated that I'm capable of restraining my _~burning lust~_ for you. I just want to sleep with you." He punctuated this request by grabbing the comforter and jerking it from Yokozawa's grasp, jerking back the covers to lean onto the mattress. "Give me a break tonight."

"But--this is--" Yokozawa started, but any protests died on his tongue as he realized he didn't know _how_ to object to this; true, they _had_ slept in the same bed before without fucking, and besides, they'd already fucked just earlier in the afternoon. It wasn't like even if Kirishima _were_ suggesting a late night roll in the hay that it would be entirely inappropriate--though he had no intention of admitting as such. He closed his eyes and glanced away, opening them again to stare out through the curtained window at the moonlight dimly streaming in. "…Hiyo will be in early."

"I'm up before either of you anyways."

"…This bed's barely big enough for me alone."

"I don't mind a tight squeeze--unless you'd rather come back to my room…?"

"Hell no," Yokozawa snapped reflexively, tugging at the comforter to try and dislodge it from Kirishima's grip--to no avail. A sigh. "…What the hell do you want to sleep with me for anyways if you don't want to fuck?"

"Why, you want to? Cause I'm tired, but I'm sure I could get it up--"

" _No,_ " he ground out, but shuffled over on the mattress without further protest, grateful for the darkness which meant he didn't have to see Kirishima's smug grin of victory. "But two grown men sleeping in the same bed is more than a little…"

He could hear the frown in Kirishima's voice. "…A little what? I like you; I want to sleep with you."

"But you don't want to _sleep with_ me."

"You seem _really_ hung up on this sex thing--are you _sure_ you don't want to--" Yokozawa took advantage of the closeness to slap his hand over Kirishima's mouth, jerking it back in disgust with Kirishima soundly licked the center of his palm. "Stop freaking out over this; that furrow in your brow's approaching abyssal proportions."

Yokozawa frowned, grunting in protest when Kirishima slipped in close, guiding him back down to the bed and spooning up behind him, nestled snugly against him chest-to-back. "I'm not freaking out. I asked a simple question; you're the one being all cagey about it."

"What's there to be cagey about? I need a reason to want to sleep with the guy I like?"

 _When that guy's me--yeah._ " _Just_ because of this afternoon--" Kirishima's arm came up around him, trailing fingers up over his hip and dipping under the light sleep-shirt he'd donned; he preferred sleeping shirtless for the most part, but with Hiyo around, it just seemed indecent.

It wasn't sexual _per se_ \--it was just touching, light fleeting sensations working over his skin, trailing up his obliques and pectorals and then down his biceps to draw patterns in his flesh. He could feel Kirishima breathing behind him, his back burning on each inhalation as his chest expanded and covered him like a blanket--much more of this, and whether either of them intended it or not initially, they were going to have to take care of themselves before turning in. "Ki…Kirishima-san, that's…"

"I lied."

"Eh?"

"I lied," he repeated calmly, voice soft by Yokozawa's ear. "…I was mad at you. When you told me off." He tightened his arms around Yokozawa and twined one leg with his own. "I know I was being a meddling asshole too, but still…"

Yokozawa flushed at all the contact but couldn't bring himself to shake the guy off. "I…I apologized in the first place because I thought you were mad. It's not like I'm surprised. I was a jerk."

"You were," Kirishima allowed, pressing his face against Yokozawa's neck and smiling against his nape. "…You were kinda hot when you were shouting, though."

"Nice to hear you feel that way, since I foresee lots of shouting at you in the future." Kirishima chuckled at this. "…You're seriously going to sleep here? All night?"

"Mmhmm…" he murmured, breathing going deep and even. "Promise I'll be good." Yokozawa snorted his disbelief at this, and Kirishima grew quiet, continuing after a moment in a clearer voice, "…I missed you."

"Huh? I skipped one lousy night here; I didn't drop off the face of the planet." But even as he protested as much, he knew that hadn't been what Kirishima meant, and in silent apology for being deliberately obtuse, he brought his hands up with a sigh and covered Kirishima's hands with his own, pulling them tighter around himself and praying Kirishima didn't say something stupid to make him regret this.

"I know," Kirishima allowed, breathing in sharply at Yokozawa's touch on him. "…Still felt like shit, though. So just…" He swallowed, throat bobbing such that Yokozawa felt it against his skin. "…Just, I need this, just for tonight. Yokozawa."

And _fuck_ when he asked like that, all open and raw and without his stupid, smug mask, it was hard to tell him no. Kirishima was more dangerous when he was being honest and frank than when he was teasing and annoying the shit out of Yokozawa.

Except this time he was saying all of the things Yokozawa couldn't, and while he'd have sooner died than entertain the thought, much less own up to it…he kind of needed this too, just now. Needed to know that Kirishima wanted him, wanted _all_ of him, emotional baggage and trust issues and scary face and all. And if he was crawling into Yokozawa's bed in the middle of the night, putting up with his griping and complaining and _still_ wanted to hold him…well, that was dedication. "…Just for tonight, then."

Until they both needed this reassurance again, at least.


	8. Wrong

He knows he was in the wrong. He knows that this whole incident had been a long time coming, that he'd made his bed when he'd started poking that angry, depressed bear of a man, and now he was going to have to lie in it--alone.

But knowing something-- _understanding_ something is a far cry from accepting it, and having a conscious handling on the situation really does little to soothe the ache in his chest that he'd never thought he'd feel again and is, honestly, a little surprised to be experiencing now.

He can't quite pin down when Yokozawa started to become less of a pet project and more _Yokozawa_ , a big, brash, beautiful person who loved hard and hurt harder and was all bark and very little bite and endearing in so many little ways that he probably would've rather Kirishima not notice--except it was kind of hard to not notice someone like Yokozawa, and truth be told, Kirishima wasn't of a mind to try and ignore the guy.

So however it happened, Yokozawa is very much what the Sapphire lot might consider Kirishima's _precious person_ , though probably not how they might consider it. He has a vested interest in keeping Yokozawa's mind occupied, keeping him thinking about what treat to bring Hiyo on any given night or how violently he should protest Kirishima's requests for dinner or a drink so that Kirishima doesn't catch on that, nowadays, he doesn't mind being dragged around so much at all, really. All of these efforts are not for nothing, of course: every moment Yokozawa spends thinking about Kirishima or Hiyo or any combination thereof is a moment he's not dwelling on Takano, and that suits Kirishima just fine.

He's not jealous, though. It isn't that he thinks Yokozawa's focus should be on _him_ and nothing else. Hell, he's quite sure he'd be perfectly content to leave Yokozawa to his own devices so long as said devices involved something to keep him from focusing on _that guy_. As it is, Kirishima is confident that left on his own, Yokozawa _would_ slip into such a pit, would spin his wheels in fruitless efforts and just grow angrier and more frustrated than he already is; that's where Kirishima came in, altruistic and self-sacrificing as any.

But deep down, from the moment he held out his hand and prayed for Yokozawa to take it ( _blackmailed_ Yokozawa into taking it), he has always known that in the end, it won't be his efforts that pull Yokozawa up and into the light, but Yokozawa's own acceptance that he's _worth more_ , that he deserves more than a failed first love, that he deserves someone who'll look at him--at all he is, dark and light--and think _yeah, I could love you. I could love you more than you could stand._ Kirishima just lacks much faith that Yokozawa will take that understanding and do anything with it. Because, again, knowing something is a far cry from accepting it.

So yeah, maybe he was in the wrong to push Yokozawa as he had. Maybe he was in the wrong to stick his nose where it hadn't belonged, but Kirishima maintains resolutely that he always had the best of intentions, even if it wound up as pavement on a road straight to hell. He certainly feels like he's headed there now--as Yokozawa hates just as fiercely as he loves, and Kirishima has just been demonstrated this fact spectacularly. He's also the type to hold grudges for a lifetime, though--and Kirishima doesn't know if he can bear Yokozawa's disdain and hurt for that length of time.

The room is dim--Hiyo's already in bed, and it's got to be past 10. Usually he'd be propped up on the couch, feet in Yokozawa's lap as the guy grumbled about how unsanitary it was and tried to push them off (futilely) before giving up and resting his elbows on them. They'd sit there in quiet comfort for another hour, doing their work and living their own lives _together_ , and neither would voice it but both would be thinking in the back of their minds that _this kind of quiet domesticity might not be so bad…I could get used to this._ \--which was about when Yokozawa would stand on legs half-asleep from disuse and make up an excuse about missing the last train and needing to head out. Kirishima would nod and follow him to the door, making idle commentary about a meeting they had the next week or a dinner menu Hiyo had been kicking around for the weekend and wouldn't Yokozawa join them? He'd nod gruffly, and Kirishima's pulse would race a bit at the softness in Yokozawa's eyes when he thought about how happy Hiyo would be to hear his response--and he'd have to expend every ounce of his strength not to reach a hand out, thread his fingers through Yokozawa's hair and brace them at the nape of his neck to pull him close for a parting kiss, not too rough but passionate in its heat and insistence.

He finds he feels like that a lot around Yokozawa these days--like every inch of him just vibrates, itching to do _something_ to impress upon Yokozawa through more than words how much he's come to mean to Kirishima, how invested Kirishima is in his happiness, even at the expense of his own. How he's opened himself up to Yokozawa in every way, let him into every corner of his life in the hopes that Yokozawa might reciprocate.

But he never does any such thing to jeopardize their fragile relationship--or rather, he's never done anything like that until today. Which is why he's lying here alone in his bed, the only light that streaming in from the bathroom, staring at the ring on his finger and frowning, as if this is the source of all his problems. It isn't, he knows logically--Yokozawa's expressed curiosity about his past before, about his late wife, but never any irritation or jealousy (which is saying something). And yet, he can't help feeling like he needs to do _something_ , something to change himself, to change how he presents himself, to open himself up _even more_ , because maybe if he does that--maybe if he strips away just one more layer, then that'll be the straw that breaks Yokozawa's aversion and shows him how _genuine_ Kirishima's being, how honest his efforts are.

Maybe it'll show him that Kirishima's not tied to the past anymore, so he shouldn't be either.

The band comes off easily--it's chilly in his room, and Kirishima's too lazy to turn on the little space heater in the corner. He turns it over a few times in his hand before gripping it tight in his palm and squeezing until the metal warms and starts to press into his skin uncomfortably. When he opens his hand again, the shine is a bit dulled with perspiration, and it dimly reflects back the light streaming in from the bathroom.

After this afternoon, Yokozawa may never freely speak to him again--and Kirishima supposes that's fine. He's learned to take greater pleasure in Yokozawa doing things of his own volition these days than in forcing him into situations he'd rather not be party to.

But even if their last words to one another were as harsh as those exchanged on the roof of Marukawa Shoten, Kirishima finds some small solace in the knowledge that he's done his best, admitted his faults, and can now pour his whole self into learning how to live for the future, and not for the past.

He sets the ring on the bedside table, where it falls with a solid _clunk_ against the grained wood surface.

Hiyo might ask about it--she's already expressed concern at Yokozawa's palpable absence on an evening he usually spends with them--and Kirishima isn't quite sure how he'll explain it away, but he can't see himself putting it on again now that he's done the deed, and while he knows the gesture will figuratively fall on deaf ears with Yokozawa, it's the last thing he can do for the guy: to show him in some small way that even if he's done nothing but hurt Yokozawa during their time together…Kirishima hasn't exactly gotten off scot-free himself.


	9. Learn

There's a lot he doesn't know about Kirishima. Living with the guy virtually full time now (heading back to his own apartment only a few days a week to check on things while he waits for his contract to run out next month), of course these _unknowns_ are decreasing day by day, but he still has moments where it hits him that he doesn't know what sort of child Kirishima was in school or how he proposed to his wife (it better not have been with a key) or what his favorite season is or if he can swim--and sure, these seem like inane details, which is why they've never come up in conversation before, but there's still that dark part of him that is possessive and needy and that _thrives_ on knowing Kirishima better than anyone else.

Fortunately, Kirishima is an eager teacher, preferring learning by doing to any Socratic method nonsense--and of late, he's taken great pleasure in acquainting Yokozawa with all of the different sounds that fall from his lips as Yokozawa presses into him, a slow, sensual burn that is maddening to endure for both parties but an unfortunate necessity.

Kirishima grimaces, breaths short and stilted, and he throws his head back against the pillow, arching his back and pressing his hips forward and up at an angle to invite Yokozawa in deeper--his not-so-subtle way of telling Yokozawa to _fuck me, already_. Yokozawa leans over him, bracing himself with hands on either side of Kirishima's torso, and tries not to make eye contact--if he does, he's sure to come undone embarrassingly quickly, and he already feels like Kirishima's judging each and every move he makes, mentally preparing a post-coital blow-by-blow.

It wasn't his idea to do this facing each other; he'd long ago professed his preference for quick and dirty, rough, passionate joinings made all the more intense by the knowledge that they had a narrow window of time to bring each other off, and he loved just pressing into that warm tightness of an upturned ass, hands braced against bony hips to pull his partner in with a jolting jerk before pushing out again and repeating til he'd spent himself.

Kirishima generally hasn't minded such rounds himself, either, and has been happy enough to go along with Yokozawa on the odd nights that he initiated anything (it isn't that he _doesn't want to_ , but Kirishima doesn't need to go getting a big head about how Yokozawa feels for him), but by and large Kirishima refuses to relinquish control on this one point, insisting on kissing while they fuck and staring into each other's eyes and such tripe.

Yokozawa half wonders if he realizes the sway he holds over Yokozawa with those lips and does it _on purpose_ just to throw him off his game.

He swallows thickly and wills his erection to cease the twitching it tends to do when he catches a glimpse of Kirishima's face, flushed with effort and arousal and eyes dark with wide pupils. "You're supposed to sit back nice and quiet while I fuck you--that's what being on top's about."

The corner of Kirishima's lip curls in amusement. "Never said--you could be on top. Just said you could stick it in me tonight was all." He shifts up onto his elbows, wincing, and cocks his head to the side with his chin jutting out, in clear invitation. "Come on."

Yokozawa frowns, reaching down with one hand to wrap his fingers lightly around Kirishima's cock in the hopes it'll distract him from trying such tactics. "I'm bad at multitasking--lie back and let me finish this."

Kirishima gasps audibly and thrusts up weakly into his grip, wincing at the double onslaught and snapping his hand down between his legs to wrap his fingers over Yokozawa's, gently urging him off. "Bull--shit," he manages through grit teeth, but he makes no further complaints, now, and Yokozawa feels a smug sense of accomplishment.

He shifts to balance on one hand, keeping the other trained on Kirishima's cock with slow, gentle strokes that belie the good, hard fuck he's preparing to give the guy. Kirishima flops back onto the bed, groaning in frustration and fidgeting like a virgin, and Yokozawa isn't sure if he should laugh or be turned on by the sight. "This is why we can't do anything unless Hiyo's gone."

"You really--want to bring Hiyo up right now?" He has a point. "And just because you're a repressed basket case doesn't mean-- _ah_ \--that I have to be, too."

He wants to ask something witty like _were you this loud with your wife?_ but it'd wind up sounding less witty and more passive-aggressive desperation, so he holds his tongue and instead releases Kirishima's cock to fall heavy against his stomach as Yokozawa rearranges his hips for what he hopes will be a pleasant angle for the both of them, leaning forward to brace his arms on either side of Kirishima's torso. "It's fucking annoying, though, having to listen to you whine like a girl."

"Take it as--a compliment," he huffs through a smile, adding with a hint of hope, "Or shut me up."

Yokozawa snorts and finally allows himself to give in--he's too far gone to care anymore, and there's no sense in posturing for Kirishima of all people. "Shutting you up it is, then." He cranes his neck down to press their lips together--met halfway by Kirishima's eager, searching motions, and subsequently is forced to relinquish control of the kiss as Kirishima takes it to a place he's comfortable with at a pace he prefers.

Yokozawa grunts softly at the turn, but opts to bodily (rather than vocally) impress upon Kirishima his frustration, and he clenches his abdominals to press himself deeper inside, forcing a gentle jolt at the end before arching his back to pull himself out again.

When his hips can no longer stand the strain, he thrusts in again, not so slow this time, and none too gentle either, connecting with a loud slap of flesh against flesh and making Kirishima cry out against his mouth, voice half-muffled between their lips and tongues and teeth. Ego buoyed by this reaction, Yokozawa smiles to himself and uses one hand to steady Kirishima's lower half, cupping his ass tight enough to leave marks that Kirishima will affectionately call _battle scars_ in the morning.

He executes several more long thrusts in and out, each building in speed and intensity over the last, and by now even Kirishima has given up trying to split his focus between kissing Yokozawa and being pounded into the mattress, falling back boneless and letting his knees lock against Yokozawa's sides as he rides out the cresting wave.

Yokozawa takes this for the tacit permission (or rather, tacit _order_ ) it is and grits his teeth (but doesn't furrow his brow) as he gives himself over to his instincts and gives Kirishima what they've both been waiting for since Kirishima had kissed the back of his neck while Yokozawa was elbow-deep in dishwater, reminding him that Hiyo was on a school trip and he'd finished faxing his manuscript to Ijuuin-sensei fifteen minutes before.

Lips free to do as they liked, Kirishima lets his jaw fall open and doesn't bother to hold in his cries; Yokozawa makes no move to reprimand him for this--instead simply praying the walls aren't as thin as his own--and allows himself the small luxury of enjoying the sounds permeating Kirishima's small bedroom, the dark silence filled with sounds of life and pleasure, the creaking of mattress springs and huffed, heavy breathing and labored grunts and keening gasps, punctuated with the occasional slap of flesh coming together and a desperate, yearning _Yo--kozawa… Yokoza--ngh!_

Kirishima's incessant babbling is quite possibly worse for Yokozawa's composure than those damned sexy sounds he lets loose, and hearing his name in this context falling from kiss-swollen lips coupled with his fingers groping blindly for purchase against his shoulders is his undoing--with a few final, jerky thrusts, he's buried himself as deep as he can and put the condom he'd insisted on wearing to good use. Kirishima must have felt it, for a moment later he pulls Yokozawa down with one arm wrapped around his neck, thrusting his tongue between his lips and sucking hard while he works himself with his free hand, frantically tugging the last bit to push himself over the edge where he spills all over his hand and stomach, continuing to kiss Yokozawa as long as he can bear before he has to take deeper breaths or risk fainting.

Yokozawa feels a strange urge to be a gentleman, and braces one hand beneath Kirishima's upper back to help lower him back to the bed, face a mask of awkward confusion--this is always the worst part of sex, especially sex with Kirishima (no matter how admittedly fantastic it was). He slips out of Kirishima and goes about the mundane motions of disposing of the condom, glancing away from Kirishima's unabashed nudity and the sheen of semen splattered across his stomach.

"See? You can totally multitask." Yokozawa tosses the tied off condom into a small trash can by the bed, making a note to dispose of it properly later, and shakes his head with a snort. "What?"

"Nothing. You're just--impossible."

He feels the bed shift beneath him and glances over his shoulder to see that Kirishima's rolled onto his side, head propped up in one elbow as he watches Yokozawa. "Pretty sure it's impossible for me to be impossible, as I'm right here. Unless you just fucked a phantom."

"You're too loud to be anything but yourself."

"You like that I'm loud," is the knowing reply, and Yokozawa feels the soft tickle of hair and press of flesh against his back as Kirishima leans to lay his forehead against Yokozawa. He can feel Kirishima's lips brushing against his spine with every word. "Just like I like how you try to hold everything in."

"No need for the both of us to sound like porn stars."

"You watch enough porn to know what it sounds like?" Yokozawa twists around to give him a _look_ , and he snorts, nearly shoving him off the bed as he rolls over to the other side and casts about on the floor for the boxers he'd shucked in their hasty foreplay. "You can stay the strong, silent type then. I'll be loud enough for the both of us."

Which is about when Yokozawa realizes that maybe there are some things he doesn't need to know at all.


	10. Mad

He feels ridiculous now. He's wasted nearly a whole day and stressed more than he's comfortable with over the unfounded notion that Kirishima was mad at him for some unfathomable reason, and to now realize it was for nothing, little more than the guy's guilty conscience eating at him, is well...a bit anticlimactic.

He had somehow managed to avoid Kirishima the rest of the day after Henmi's untimely interruption--though he can't quite confidently chalk it up to his finely honed skills of avoidance so much as the fact that Kirishima had, in all likelihood, made himself scarce of his own accord (hopefully for different reasons than before, though).

He supposes they're neither one of them _used_ to this: all the trappings that come with being in a relationship. Kirishima presumably hasn't had anything serious in a good decade or so, and Yokozawa...well, he's _never_ had anything this serious. He'd had casual girlfriends...and then he'd had _Takano_ , and that had soundly quashed any interest in romantic flings for the next ten years as he worked to rebuild their friendship and help the both of them cultivate successful careers.

So they're both a bit rusty, and that's to be expected. But if relationships are _this_ difficult, then how on earth does anyone ever manage to stick with one long enough to get past _this_? This awkward phase where he's not quite sure where they stand with each other, if what he's starting to feel for Kirishima will ever be as strong as what he still feels, on some level, for Takano.

If that sick way his stomach churned when he'd panicked earlier, fretting that he couldn't figure out _why_ Kirishima was mad at him--that he just wanted to make it better...means that he already _does_ feel that way.

He groans softly and wipes a hand over his face, and the man at his side leans over to bump their shoulders together, knocking back the last of his second drink of the evening. "Am I that boring tonight?"

"Huh?"

Kirishima snorts and shakes his head, waving a hand to catch the bartender's attention for a refill. "You haven't been listening to a word I've been saying, have you?"

"Eh--ah, sorry, just..." He coughs, licking his lips and sliding his own tumbler from one hand to the other across the bar's slick surface. "A lot on my mind today."

"Mmm, like...me?" And Yokozawa gives him the most _withering_ of looks, which just sets his lips to curling into a thin smile all the more. "Glare at me more--you know how I love it when you give me the bedroom eyes."

"Oh for _fuck's_ sake--"

"Language, dear."

It's annoying--but admittedly it's also a bit of a relief; Kirishima seems to be back to his old self, none of the awkward shame dogging his heels now as it had been earlier, so much so that Yokozawa has to wonder if he was ever _that_ concerned in the first place. The way Kirishima had come swaggering down to his office on the third floor at 6 had hearkened back to those first few weeks they'd been dancing around one another, his cocky, confident smile a welcome relief from their earlier inability to even look one another squarely on.

But Yokozawa must admit Kirishima had a good idea suggesting they shake off the day's fatigue with a drink or three (Hiyo's staying at her grandparents this weekend) before toddling home and living to regret it in the morning--and he reminds himself silently that it's only because Kirishima's place is closer and he doesn't want to have to worry about staying sober enough to navigate the trains by himself that he'll let the guy wheedle him into bunking at Kirishima's place (like he does most nights of the week already--they really need to do something about this) with minimal objection.

He feels the air crowd in around him as Kirishima leans forward to bring their faces close, dropping his voice as he swirls his refilled glass around in one hand. "So you forgive me?"

"Forgive you?"

"For looking at the card."

"...You said you didn't mean to, right?"

"...Well, yeah. But still. I kinda want to hear it from you." He leans onto the bar and props his chin up with his free hand. "Or you can let me know another way."

"Hmm, _can I_ now..." he muses softly, not rising to Kirishima's bait, and takes a sip. "Pity we're in a public place."

"There's two stalls in the men's room."

"I forgive you," Yokozawa quickly offers as appeasement, and clinks their glasses together. "There, problem solved."

Kirishima eyes him for a few long moments, then raises his brows in acceptance and nods to himself. "...Fine then. I forgive you, too."

"Wait wait wait--" Yokozawa snaps a hand out to grab his wrist, stopping him from taking another sip. "What the hell do you mean _you forgive me too_? What did I do wrong?"

Kirishima shrugs. "I dunno. But you apologized before, so I just figured it was only polite to forgive you." He rakes a gaze over Yokozawa here before a roguish smile slips onto his lips, and adds, "...And because I'm feeling generous, I'll let you make it up to me when we get home, to boot."

Yokozawa starts to think that maybe it's worth it to stop getting mad at Kirishima so often if _this_ is going to be their make-up ritual from now on.


	11. Fortune

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!

"Oi, Hiyo." Yokozawa shifts around in his seat and reaches back to gently shake her shoulder, patting her through the thick down jacket she's bundled up in. "We're here; come on." She doesn't stir, chest still rising and falling in a slow rhythm--her claims that she could _totally stay up past midnight Papa!_ seem to have been nothing more than smoke and mirrors, and Yokozawa sighs softly, turning a sheepish gaze to Kirishima in the driver's seat. "...Well?"

Kirishima purses his lips before offering as a solution, "I guess we could carry her in?" They've come this far, driving for a half hour trying to find a local shrine that isn't crowded with _hatsumoude_ -goers eager to get a jump on the new year; it'd be a waste not to go inside now, even if one-third of their party is sound asleep in the back seat. "She'll give us an earful if she finds out we went without her, or didn't go at all."

Yokozawa nods, a warm smile on his lips as he plays out the scenario in his head, and before Kirishima can comment on his sappy expression, he offers, "I'll get her."

"You're making me look like a bad father with all this coddling, you know."

"I'll take that over you professing you're jealous or some shit," Yokozawa grumbles as he steps out into the gravel lot, yanking the back door open and leaning in to unbuckle Hiyo.

"Now that you mention it..." comes the innocent continuation, but he quickly cuts himself off at a sharp glance from Yokozawa. "And there we have it--the first glare of the new year."

"Only _you_ would celebrate that," Yokozawa huffs, gently prising Hiyo free of her restraint and hefting her up into his arms, flushing with the effort--maybe he _should_ have let Kirishima carry her. Glancing to the side, he notices Kirishima eyeing him worriedly, obviously concerned Yokozawa's going to pass out from trying to cart Hiyo around in his arms, but he cuts off any commentary with a curt, "Well? Are we going?"

Kirishima shakes his head in amusement and stuffs his hands in his pockets as he leads the way through the shrine gates. They aren't the only visitors here; it's nearly 1 AM, but even this little shrine stuffed in the back roads of a nondescript neighborhood has residents taking advantage of the hour to avoid crowds, and they have to wait a few minutes before enough clear away for Kirishima to be able to toss the few charms they've kept around the apartment into the cleansing fire, watching them catch and curl up into a flash of smoke.

Hiyo stirs with a cough when they approach the incense pit, curling her arms grumpily around Yokozawa's neck, and he opts to stand back and watch from a safe distance as Kirishima goes through the motions, making gestures akin to blowing Yokozawa a kiss in an attempt to waft some of the tendrils of smoke his way. Yokozawa just rolls his eyes and readjusts Hiyo at his hip, turning on his heel and headed up towards the main steps before the altar where the other visitors are already congregating in an orderly line.

Kirishima jogs up beside him, leaning in close and dropping his voice. "Now aren't you glad you decided to spend New Year's with us and not your boring old family?"

"You've met my parents; they're not all bad."

"It's a joke, Yokozawa-san."

"You're not funny, Kirishima-san." The man snorts at this, and Hiyo finally rouses properly, blinking blearily. Yokozawa frowns at Kirishima and balances her with one arm to use his free hand to press a clump of hair behind her ear where it's hanging in her eyes. "We're at the shrine; you were asleep."

She rubs her palms in her eyes, and Yokozawa gently sets her on the ground, steadying her with two hands at her shoulders until she can find her balance. "'S it time to pray?"

"Almost; here." Kirishima presses a bright, heavy 500-yen coin into her hand, and she perks up instantly at this. "You can ring the bell, too, if you want."

Beside him, Yokozawa remarks in a low voice, "What was that you were saying about coddling?" and Kirishima elbows him and brushes past, taking up Hiyo's hand in his own as they stride forward to take their place in line together. Yokozawa follows at a comfortable pace before drawing up beside them, taking a deep breath.

It's his first new year's apart from his parents in years. This isn't particularly discomforting so much as...well, a break from the norm. When Kirishima had brought up plans for the new year holiday period a month prior, there'd been obvious hesitation in his voice as he extended an invitation to Yokozawa to join them, which had prompted confusion on Yokozawa's part initially, seeing as he'd spent most every major holiday doing something with the Kirishimas for the past nine months now. When Kirishima brought up whether or not Yokozawa would return to his parents' house for the holiday, Yokozawa had realized that _oh_ , he was being invited to essentially be a part of Kirishima's family this year.

Which...was kind of a big deal, and something he should have considered sooner, and probably a bigger step than either of them were prepared for, but wasn't this what you did with people you cared about, were in a relationship with? And that had been about the point when Kirishima had squeezed his shoulder and ducked his head to find his gaze, brows raised in compassion with, "Hey, it's just an invitation--I know you've got your own shit to take care of an--" But Yokozawa had accepted anyways, putting an end to further discussion on the subject the quickest way he knew how: by tossing the documents he'd been working on onto the table in a fit, grabbing Kirishima's chin roughly in one hand, and slotting their lips together. If there was one thing he hated more than being caught off-guard, it was being _noticed_ that he'd been caught off-guard and pandered to for it.

For his part, Kirishima hadn't objected to the abrupt shift in topic in the least.

Which left them here, shivering in thin overcoats with a ten-year-old between them, waiting for the elderly couple before them to finish their prayers at the altar before scaling the steps while Hiyo took care of the offering and bell-ringing. They clap the three of them in sync, bowing their heads in silent prayer for only a moment, before being ushered off to the side, an attendant directing them to the fortune kiosk where they can complete the _hatsumoude_ ritual and finally get to bed.

Hiyo is decidedly more awake now that the excitement has started to build within her, and she breaks free of Kirishima and Yokozawa to rush to retrieve the canister with their fortune sticks, shaking one out for herself before handing it off to Kirishima, who repeats the action and finally passes it to Yokozawa. Hiyo is delighted to find she's landed a 'great blessing', and Kirishima unfurls his and waves it under Yokozawa's nose: 'small blessing.' "I like a good challenge; don't want to just coast on some supernatural coattails this year, after all," is how he brushes off the less-than-stellar fortune.

Yokozawa unrolls his own with some trepidation, mostly because he can practically feel Hiyo about to explode with curiosity at how he's made out this year, and her disappointment is audible when he reveals: "Just a simple 'blessing.' Don't suppose you can win them all."

Hiyo tugs on his sleeve. "Wanna trade with me, Oniichan?" and Kirishima snorts beside him.

"I don't think it quite works like that, Hiyo," Yokozawa offers. "But thanks all the same. And anyways, it's just the universe balancing itself out. Last year I landed 'great blessing,' so it only makes sense."

Her frown is resolute, but she loosens her grip, slumping in on herself--before bouncing back with a bright smile. "I get it! It's cause last year was when you met me and Papa, huh? That was super lucky!" She nods to herself, clutching her fortune to her chest as she leads the way back towards the front gates. "...I'll still try and use some of my luck for you, though. It won't hurt to try."

Yokozawa just watches her go, breath caught in his throat at her moving comment, and it takes Kirishima looping their arms together to get his feet moving again.

His voice is soft and amused in Yokozawa's ear, tickling as he suggests, "So, ready for the _[_himehajime_](http://www.csse.monash.edu.au/~jwb/cgi-bin/wwwjdic.cgi?1MUJ%E5%A7%AB%E5%A7%8B%E3%82%81)_ , now?" And even as Yokozawa hisses at him not to say things like that on holy ground, he admits to himself that yeah, this is probably a better way to spend the new year than getting drunk on _amazake_ and too much mochi with his parents.

Better by far.


	12. Attention

_Beee-bebebeep!_

"Fucking--hell--" Kirishima mumbled between kisses, tongue and lips caught between similar and cock throbbing inside his pressed workpants when he shifted his hips against Yokozawa's beneath him and executed a few mock thrusts along the thigh jutting between his own legs, ensuring Yokozawa was fully aware that his flesh was _extremely_ willing, but his spirit could not put up with the annoyance of a ringing phone. "Is that--you or me?"

Beneath him, Yokozawa was struggling to brace a hand between them to heave Kirishima off of him, as his mouth was otherwise occupied for the most part, and in a last ditch effort, he twisted his neck to the side and gasped out thickly, "That's--mine. It's mine."

"Oh--" Kirishima sounded much less irritated now, and he pressed another long, searching kiss to Yokozawa's lips, dipping his tongue inside and taking a long sweep before pulling back with a loud smack, breathing against his cheek, "--then it's not important."

"The hell it is--" Yokozawa grumbled, now having managed to brace both hands against Kirishima's shoulders. "Get--off--"

"Was _trying_ to, until your damned phone--" But Yokozawa had finally succeeded in shoving him backwards, and he let himself be bodily removed at the risk of having his erection uncomfortably jostled by Yokozawa's shifting knee, pulling back to the far end of the couch with a sour expression.

Yokozawa caught it between casting about for his phone and snorted incredulously, "Don't give me that shit; I've learned Ijuuin-sensei's ringtone well enough by now to know you're being a hypocritical little shit."

"He's never interrupted us just when I was about to--"

"Hello?"

 _"Ah--Yokozawa?"_ Oh _shit_. The worst person possible, calling at the worst possible time. Yokozawa could feel his face, which had been flushed red with arousal and effort, pale at Masamune's voice filtering over the airwaves. _"...Sorry it's kinda late; I just got home and wondered..."_ A pause, as Masamune was no doubt growing suspicious at Yokozawa's uncharacteristic lack of a response to his greeting, or his apology, or his half-assed excuse as to why he was calling.

They were...okay again. Not as good as old, not as good as new, but not that horrible, acrid, biting humiliation nor the equally sickening, guilt-stricken rut they'd both been stuck in for a good few months following that spectacular blow-up. Now, heading on into a year since he'd taken Kirishima up on his offer of a key, he could finally carry on a conversation with Masamune outside of work without wondering how much of it was out of pity and a desperation to try and scrape together some semblance of their former relationship.

However, such conversations were _not_ for having while his shirt was stuffed beneath a couch cushion, his belt was unclasped and clinking against his drawn zipper, and his cock was straining against his underwear practically _daring_ Kirishima to try something underhanded while he was on the phone. To nip any such attempts in the bud, Yokozawa shifted around to sit properly on the couch, putting his crotch out of grabbing distance, and cleared his throat. "Sorry--I was just--" he started pathetically, but his gaze was drawn to Kirishima, who responded with a raised brow, and he abandoned the attempt at an excuse altogether, coughing softly. "Anyways, what did you need?"

 _"It's not terribly important--but I wanted to take Sorata this weekend."_

"Huh? The whole weekend?"

 _"Sure; I'll just be sitting around on my ass rushing through Ichinose-sensei's third attempt at a decent chapter, so I may as well have some company."_ And Masamune neither suggested he come over to Kirishima's place to see Sorata nor did Yokozawa pry into why Masamune had no plans with Onodera. Some things were just better kept neither one of their business.

Yokozawa cast a glance over at the hallway, down which was located Hiyo's room, where Sorata slept most nights. He could probably swing by after work on Friday and pick up the cat to bring over to Masamune's place; it'd just be better all around than having the guy make the trip over here and have to see Yokozawa being all _domestic_ and shit.

Something pressed into his side, and he jerked back to the present, twisting to find Kirishima toeing him with his left foot, the other leg drawn up to his chest for his chin to rest against the knee. His bored expression was a clear indicator that Yokozawa had been on the phone for far too long. Yokozawa quickly moved to wrap things up as quickly as possible without giving Masamune any suggestion he was doing as much--they could be civil to each other, they could banter as they'd done before--but there was no reason either one of them needed to know they'd interrupted the other in the middle of foreplay. "Yeah--yeah, sounds fine. I'll bring him over after I get off on Friday."

"Keep chattering and it'll _be_ Friday before you get off," Kirishima groused, rolling up onto his knees, and Yokozawa panicked; he needed to end this conversation.

 _"I probably won't be in until late--do you still have my key? You can let yourself in and get him settled in and I'll watch over him when I wrap things up."_

"Yeah--I think I've--" He wracked his brain-- _did_ he still have the damned key? It didn't matter; he could always check later. "I'll find it later, but I think that should be--"

And then his phone had been snatched up by Kirishima, now quite obviously through with having Yokozawa's attention diverted away from him and their activities--much less by _Masamune_. Granted, annoying as it was, Yokozawa couldn't deny the little thrill of pride that lanced through him knowing someone was _jealous_ of him, worried that he'd be taken away from them (even if it was a decidedly ludicrous idea). He quickly pasted on a frown, groping for his phone which was held just out of reach as Kirishima twisted in place to bring the device to his ear.

"Yes--Takano-san I assume? I'm afraid Yokozawa will have to call you back to finish this conversation after I've finished sucking him off. He may be indisposed for some time, though, as I foresee some fucking in a few positions--haven't quite decided which ones yet--after the sucking off. We can chat about it in the morning over coffee if you'd prefer. Good night." And with a soft _beep_ , he ended the call and gently slid the phone back into the bag from whence Yokozawa had retrieved it, all prim and proper. "There, easy enough."

"You _asshole_ , that was--"

"The positions bit was a little over the top, huh? I was worried he wouldn't get the hint otherwise, but I dunno-- _oof_!" In a flash, he was on his back, Yokozawa's broad hands splayed over his chest and upper arm, pinning him to the cushions with startling force. "...Is this your way of saying _thank you_?"

Yokozawa's upper lip curled into a sneering snarl--the guy could be _so fucking smug_ sometimes, and if he didn't have it balanced out with the occasional bout of sheer, honest obliviousness, Yokozawa knew he'd have a hard time loving Kirishima. As it was he leaned down, practically straddling him, arms braced tight as he brought their faces close and held himself back from punching the self-aggrandizement out of him. " _...Yes_."

He was allowed to be pissed at being interrupted on occasion, too.


	13. Never

It starts off...slowly. Doesn't even seem all that much of an issue at first, really: Kirishima's no hot-headed teenager, no young lover who feels the need for constant reassurance, for constant confirmation of feelings between partners. He's been married once already, gone through the whole commitment thing and survived mostly intact, and so he understands well the pressures that come with being in a relationship and that it takes a special breed of person to be able to meet those hurdles head-on and surmount them.

Yokozawa's special, sure, but in an odd sort of way. He's special in how he'll be one Yokozawa to Hiyo in the mornings when he's showing off for her, crimping her hair into a tight little French braid Kirishima _knows_ he researched the night before, and then he'll be a completely different Yokozawa at Marukawa, snapping orders at Henmi for copies of documents he's had on his desk for two days already or slapping Kirishima's hand away when he gets too grabby (read: touches him in any way, shape, or form) in the elevator with others present, and then he'll be still _another_ Yokozawa at night, after Hiyo's been safely tucked away and they can touch and stroke and tug and thrust to their hearts' content so long as Kirishima doesn't get mouthy like he tends to (he likes to think it boosts Yokozawa's ego) or conversely, too sappy.

This "sappiness" Yokozawa so bemoans would, of course, refer to how he likes to take it upon himself to demonstrate his feelings for Yokozawa verbally. No, he doesn't wax poetic about Yokozawa's _sapphire orbs_ or _ebony locks_ , at least not outside of Marukawa where he can use such flowery language to really embarrass the guy--it's just what you _do_ with someone you care about: tell them. Tell them you love them, pepper it with curses or gasps or endearing insults, anything to get the point across that they _mean_ something to you and you want them to know that--but do it, and do it often.

So Kirishima does. He tells Yokozawa he loves him when Yokozawa makes the coffee in the morning even though it's Kirishima's turn; he tells him he loves him when he lets Kirishima take first shower and brings in a towel that was warming on the line outside, he tells him he loves him after Yokozawa's given him unexpected support in a production run decision meeting even though it means more work on his part, he tells him he loves him when Hiyo dashes back to her room to finish her work after Yokozawa's helped her with a particularly tough math problem--he takes all of these opportunities because they're _important_. No one's ever loved Yokozawa back before, and Kirishima takes it upon himself to make up for lost time.

But despite the ease with which Kirishima says exactly what he means-- _never once_ has Yokozawa returned the favor.

Which...isn't so wrong, or unexpected, or even _unsavory_. Yokozawa is Yokozawa, and Kirishima would likely sooner greet a straightforward spouting of _I love you, Kirishima-san_ with a blank stare and an offer to take his temperature than any sort of appropriate appreciation. And yet...it still kind of stings. The harsh glances, the rolling eyes, the flushed cheeks and gazes jerked aside, the grumbled, gruff responses chastising him for saying 'unnecessary things' when he just doesn't understand _how very necessary_ these words _are_ \--not just to Kirishima, but to the both of them. He'd once told Yokozawa that _much longer, and the only one who'll be willing to put up with your tsundere shit will be your lover_ , and while Kirishima would never-- _could_ never ask Yokozawa to change what he is for Kirishima's sake... _fuck_ he just wants to hear it sometimes.

It's not as if he doesn't _know_ , of course. Yokozawa tells Kirishima he loves him almost as often as vice versa--only in his own _special_ ways. Like when he makes the coffee in the morning even though it's Kirishima's turn, or when he lets Kirishima take first shower and brings in a towel that was warming on the line outside, or when he's given Kirishima unexpected support in a production run decision meeting even though it means more work on his part, or when Hiyo dashes back to her room to finish her work after Yokozawa's helped her with a particularly tough math problem...

All of these things are Yokozawa's way of saying _hey, you don't suck_ , he supposes, and he appreciates the gesture and knows the great effort it takes Yokozawa to even be _this_ straightforward--and yet...still.

They're just _words_ , they shouldn't matter; but sometimes that's all it seems there's left for them, just one more hurdle keeping them apart, and it _grates_ , to the point of irritation, where Kirishima just wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake until the _I love you_ s come tumbling out, surely just jammed somewhere inside and building up from disuse.

He wants to be understanding, wants to be the _home_ that Yokozawa can come back to and feel comfortable in, never pressured, never presumed upon, and so he holds it in. He holds in his own _I love you_ s, because sometimes it seems they only make Yokozawa even more uncomfortable--a stark contrast drawing his own reticence into focus and seemingly silently accusing after each confession _even if you don't love me back_. He tries Yokozawa's diet of _showing not telling_ for a while, but he's nowhere near as deft as Yokozawa when it comes to being subtle about one's feelings, and in the end he has to bow out gracefully as possible.

But he must have been too obvious in his desires, too overeager and underwhelming, for just after he's sent Hiyo off to Yuki-chan's to help her mother make fudge, Yokozawa comes storming in, hair in disarray and briefcase flung into a corner of the genkan as he stalks forward and grabs Kirishima roughly at the elbow to drag him into Kirishima's bedroom ( _their_ bedroom). "Read this, and don't say a fucking word." He presses a folded up note into Kirishima's palm, drawing out his acquiescence to the terms with a fierce gaze.

Kirishima swallows, hesitantly glancing down at the crumpled paper, its edges digging into his palm, and back up at Yokozawa breathing hard and staring him down. Nothing to do but comply, he gingerly unfolds the note, mouths the cryptic message to himself with furrowed brows, and then shifts his attention back to Yokozawa, waiting for further orders.

"You want me to talk to you more? Fine. I'll tell you exactly what you want to hear: I hate you. I hate you so _fucking_ much. The day I met you was the worst day of my life--all because of _you_." He takes a breath, then barrels on. "I hate your face, your stupid smug smile, your irritating laugh, that brat you pawn off on me--my life’s a living hell now, and it’s _all your fault_. You're a self-centered asshole _hack_ of an editor, and you've done nothing but dedicate the past few months of your life to making mine _utter shit_." He jerks Kirishima close by the shirt collar, knuckles white because he's squeezing so hard. "So _fuck you_."

There's a long beat of silence, after which Kirishima swallows again, throat unexpectedly dry now and fingers shaking with nervous energy. He prises Yokozawa's fingers free from where they've gripped him, claw-like, before gently pressing the broad, open palms to his cheeks, sighing and shaking his head as he feels Yokozawa's warmth flow into him. "...That's all I ever wanted to hear."

Then he slides the hands down his neck, chest, sides, until they settle at his waist, and pushes Yokozawa towards the bed--tossing the crumpled-up note into the trashcan as an afterthought: ' _It's the opposite_.'

He's never felt more loved in his life.


	14. Blur

Yokozawa could hear the soft, muffled laughter through the thin walls of Kirishima's apartment--a pause and then more rumbling speech, peppered with silent breaths or a lighter, more lilting but equally muffled voice counterbalancing as Kirishima and Hiyori traded comments back and forth, likely on how Kirishima's bedtime stories were, quite honestly, _shit_.

But well, Hiyori had asked for it.

It was a rare night that Hiyori didn't ask Yokozawa to tuck her in, possibly because she knew that he would be more _thorough_ in the whole ordeal, fluffing her pillow and pressing down her comforter around her, giving Sorata a few good scratches behind the ear before quietly slipping out the door following a goodnight kiss to her forehead. Kids never judged you for letting yourself go--and Yokozawa bestowed on her all of the affection he'd have slit his throat before allowing Kirishima to see unadorned.

Tonight, though--she'd explicitly asked for her _Papa_. Yokozawa hadn't felt slighted, but he wouldn't lie and say he didn't feel a bit _curious_ as to why on earth she'd wanted Kirishima in there puttering about awkwardly, having no earthly clue how to braid her wet hair so that it hung in crimped waves in the morning or that Thursday nights were fairy tale nights.

He sighed to himself and shuffled the papers on his lap for the third time in as many minutes; Onodera over in Masamune's division was itching to have another fair for one of his authors on the heels of a rather successful recent one. He'd obviously let it go to his head and would, Yokozawa prayed, land squarely on his ass flooding the storefronts with so much marketing. Yokozawa was contractually bound to help, sure, but that didn't mean he couldn't take sick pleasure in seeing the little prick trip and fall on his face. Masamune or no--the guy rubbed him the wrong way, and that was that.

He wiped a hand over his face and slumped back against the couch, letting his head loll to the side as he stared at the empty cushion beside him. Kirishima had been going over a manuscript for one of his less prolific authors, a virtual unknown he'd taken on as a pet project; it was nice, the occasions when they could sit in quiet comfort together, catching up on work without Kirishima feeling the pressures and frustrations of handling a difficult client like Ijuuin-sensei. Yokozawa himself was starting to feel a groaning shudder of unease whenever he glimpsed Ijuuin-sensei's familiar scrawl on whatever stack of papers Kirishima was tackling any given night--for it meant he'd be expected to find some way to ease the tension in Kirishima's shoulders or face a strained evening together followed by any frustrations on Kirishima's part being wrought upon Yokozawa's body when they turned in.

Of course, that tended to happen regardless of the author Kirishima was dealing with, so he supposed this wasn't such an ordeal.

Snorting softly at his own clever quip, Yokozawa rifled through the papers on Kirishima's end of the couch--an opening panel, some fight scene he couldn't piece together, and Kirishima's notes in red offering comments and arrows to show where panels should be shifted or cut altogether. The whole stack was weighed down and kept together by a folded pair of handsome wire reading glasses. The guy didn't need them for much, but they helped ease the strain when he was curled up here next to Yokozawa for hours on end during those silent sessions where they both had their focus on their own work but enjoyed the sense of domestic togetherness that such proximity afforded (though they would neither admit as such).

He fingered the glasses gently, palming them and testing their weight--almost featherlight, hardly any substance to them at all. He gingerly unfolded the arms and peered through them, squinting, before carefully slipping them over the bridge of his nose to rest comfortably over his ears.

Everything took on a soft blur--not illegible, but no longer the sharp clarity Yokozawa saw the world in. He brought Onodera's proposal closer and closer, squinting to try to bring the damned thing into proper focus, but it was to no avail.

"Now you know how blind I am; my secret is no longer safe," came a soft, amused quip from behind, and Yokozawa, flustered, scrambled to remove the glasses as gently as possible, tossing them back onto the cushion as he squirmed around in place.

"Wh--is Hiyo...?"

"Asleep. Or on her way there, I assume." He crossed his arms and sauntered close, leaning over the back of the couch to stare down at Yokozawa. "See? I can be a proper parent from time to time."

"Never said you couldn't."

"You thought it, though." Yokozawa opened his mouth to protest, but quickly snapped it shut again--prompting a soft chuckle from Kirishima. "I don't blame you, I feel the same sometimes."

He stood back up straight and started around the couch proper, and Yokozawa struggled to explain himself. "You're not a _bad_ parent, you know--you're not too soft on her, but you spoil her when occasion calls for it, and she respects you just fine but loves you all the same. It's as much as any parent can ask for."

Kirishima slipped back onto the cushion beside him after shifting his papers to the side, smiling secretly. "Yeah, I know."

"...So don't go making stupid comments like that when you know better."

"But then I wouldn't get to hear you defend me like that." He reached over and picked up his glasses, shaking them in Yokozawa's face. "See something you like?"

"I didn't--I was just curious--"

"Curiosity killed the bear."

Yokozawa's frown shifted from one of guilt to annoyance. "That's not how it goes." Kirishima just shrugged. "And you're a hell of a lot blinder than I assumed."

"Indeed; soon I'll be a feeble old fart you'll have to cart around in a wheelchair and _then_ how will we make our mad, passionate love, Yokozawa-san?"

Yokozawa sighed; Kirishima was off and running now, and it was best not to engage if he wanted to get any more work done this evening. "I suppose you'll have to get a sexy nurse to take care of you if you want _that_."

Kirishima was not to be brushed aside so easily tonight, though, it seemed: "Will you still love me when I'm no longer the spry, vigorous youth that I am now? Or will your flaming desire for me wither with age until, like me, it's but a husk of its former self?" He'd now draped his arm over Yokozawa's shoulder to lean in close and brush their noses and foreheads close, being careful to keep his lips at a safe distance and thereby annoy Yokozawa all the _more_ with promises of an early evening but never any _action_ to make it so.

He snorted softly at the dramatics; in the privacy of his own mind, he was allowed to be as amused as he wanted at the guy's antics without Kirishima giving him shit for it and getting an even bigger head. "If you're so concerned, you'd better make sure you do your best to keep me interested then, shouldn't you?"


	15. Vision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honor of Coming-of-Age day, January 9!

Her grandmother had helped her pick out the _furisode_ , and Kirishima had been nigh on _gleeful_ as he'd reimbursed his mother for the purchase, reminding Hiyo in as most parental a manner as possible that, "You're gonna try it on right now and then not touch it again until January, all right? I want to see what I've just taken a loan out for."

Yokozawa had rolled his eyes, but still kept Kirishima in his peripheral vision as he chatted with his mother about the day's purchases. It was…a family thing. And even now, ten years in, Yokozawa didn't feel 100% like _family_ , especially not on occasions such as this.

It was a familiar sense of unease, though: he'd felt it when Hiyo had graduated from elementary school, and again after middle school, and _again_ after high school, and now here she was babbling a mile-a-minute about what color earrings she was planning to wear and where she and her friends were going after the ceremony and--

"You'll do my hair for me, won't you Oniichan?"

Ten years on, and he was still her _Oniichan_ \--ten years on, and whenever she came to visit her Papa and Oniichan, she still liked to plop herself down on the floor between Yokozawa's knees on the couch with a hairband in one hand and a brush in the other. "It calms me down," she would claim, giving Yokozawa a look as if to say _Well? Get on with it!_

The more things changed, the more they inevitably stayed the same, it seemed.

Kirishima shooed his daughter away, pointing her to her old room and instructing her not to come out again until she'd gotten properly dolled up in her new kimono. It wasn't every year that one's daughter celebrated her Coming-of-Age, and Kirishima obviously intended to milk this for all it was worth, much to Hiyo's chagrin as she did as instructed and tossed back a comment along the lines of, "Such an idiot parent…"

His mother bustled past them in the living room into the kitchen to put on a kettle, and Kirishima took advantage of the momentary calm in the apartment to settle beside Yokozawa on the couch where he'd been silently taking in the activity that had erupted on Hiyo's and her grandmother's return from shopping.

"Did you hear that? _Idiot parent_ she calls me. When I just forked over a small mint to buy her that kimono."

"You didn't seem too torn up about the price. And if I recall I put in some for it as well."

Kirishima waved him off, as if his contribution to what was virtually _their_ daughter's upcoming ceremony were nihil. "Still, it's no excuse for her to start complaining about our wanting to dote on her--"

" _Your_ wanting to dote on her."

"You dote on her all the time! She's always going on about _Oniichan_ this and _Oniichan_ that when I have lunch with her at the university." He grew quiet, then turned his gaze, curious. "…Does she talk about me when you have lunch with her?"

"I'm afraid I cannot break the sacred bond of silence that Hiyo and I share, Kirishima-san."

"You're not pulling _that_ shit again, are you?" he groaned, wiping a hand over his face and ruffling his hair as he threw Yokozawa a glance. "You've always been her favorite."

"I was just the shiny new toy you dragged home one evening to have her play with."

Kirishima snorted and leaned to the side, letting his head rest on Yokozawa's shoulder and doing his level best to distract him from the proposal he was reviewing. "This is it, you know."

"Hm?"

"The last time we get to spoil her like this."

"There's still her wedding."

He could tell Kirishima was making a face by the tone of his voice. "She's never getting married. I won't allow it."

"What if _I_ allow it, though?"

"I'm her father!"

"She likes me better, you said so yourself." And at this, Kirishima lifted off his shoulder to glare, leaving Yokozawa to sigh and roll his eyes. "You couldn't stop her if she wanted to anyways. She's got her Papa's stubbornness."

"She didn't get that from me; if anyone, she got it from _you_." He glanced up when his mother wandered back in with two steaming cups of tea, which she set in front of them on the low coffee table. "Thanks."

She nodded. "Where's Hiyo-chan?"

Kirishima waved his hand towards her room. "The princess is still preening, I assume."

She chuckled. "Don't say that like you aren't on pins and needles waiting to see how she looks."

"You're the one who told her to try it on in the first place," Yokozawa added as a reminder, receiving a warm look of amusement from Kirishima's mother. "Don't think I didn't see you sneak that disposable camera out of the junk drawer earlier."

Kirishima mocked him silently, standing up and brushing the wrinkles from his shirt in disdain. "Mother, can't you go see what's taking your grandchild?"

She crossed her arms and rolled her eyes at the scene. "Honestly, must you always be so difficult?"

"Yes," Yokozawa answered immediately, keeping his eyes on his work and lazily scrawling notes in the margins. She shook her head and shuffled down the little hallway, calling for Hiyo.

Kirishima kicked him in the shin lightly for attention. "I'm not being difficult."

"You're being yourself; same difference." He glanced up, taking silent pleasure in Kirishima's miffed expression. "You're ruining this auspicious occasion with such an unseemly frown, Kirishima-san."

"We bought her a kimono; that's not auspicious. Not for our bank accounts, at least."

"The frown still doesn't suit you."

"Hmm, you're one to talk." He leaned forward, settling one knee on the couch cushion to Yokozawa's side to half-straddle him, and dropped his voice. "I'm not being difficult."

"You're being a father. Same difference." And this time, Kirishima's thin lips quirked up at their corners. "There, that's better."

"Papa?" Kirishima jumped off of Yokozawa, hands straight out at his sides as if to show any onlookers that he hadn't been about to start anything, honest--and his breath was immediately stolen with a sharp gasp.

"Hiyo, you're…" He ran a hand through his hair before settling it over his mouth. "Holy shit…" And Yokozawa cuffed him softly in reprimand before pushing himself up off the couch to shuffle across to where Hiyo stood in the doorway, reams of colorful fabric decorated with gold threading in intricate designs hanging off of her as she tentatively stepped into the room awaiting their approval.

Yokozawa crossed his arms, taking a slow walk around her with a discerning look pasted on for show. "I have to say--you look a _vision_."

"I'd better--for that price," she offered, cheeks flushed from the compliment. She twisted a finger in her hair. "I'll be all made up for the ceremony of course, and my hair--well, you'll do it, won't you, Oniichan?"

He nodded shortly. "Though I can't imagine why you wouldn't want a proper stylist doing--"

"No way! I want to look at the pictures and know that I looked that pretty because of Papa and Oniichan--so you've _gotta_ do it."

"All right, all right--you've twisted my arm." He glanced back over at Kirishima, who still stood, dumbfounded, by the couch. "Well, Kirishima-san? Have you nothing to say to your daughter?"

At his name, Kirishima started, mouth opening and closing a few times with nothing coming out, until he stumbled forward jerkily before coming to a stop in front of Hiyo. He glanced back and forth, from Yokozawa to his mother to Hiyo and back again, before leaning forward to wrap his arms around his daughter tightly and whisper into her neck, "You're never getting married, I don't care what your Oniichan says."


	16. History

It hadn't been on purpose--he wanted to make that clear, to himself if not to the person he most wanted to know that fact. He hadn't been nosing about where he shouldn't have been, he hadn't been _looking_ for things that didn't concern him, and if he hadn't found it in the first place, months if not years would have likely gone by before he even let himself _wonder_ about it.

But he'd found it, nonetheless--a pile of three dust-covered scrapbooks shoved to the back wall of the closet on the top-most shelf where Yokozawa had been trying to store some boxes of Kirishima's winter clothes now that the temperatures outside were making their way back into the double digits and his dresser couldn't comfortably fit _both_ of their entire wardrobes.

Looking back, he couldn't fathom why he hadn't just shoved the books to the side, what had made him take them down, gingerly brushing off the dust that had collected on their covers over the years, why he'd _sat down_ , hunched over Kirishima's old loafers and sneakers and with a too-small suit jacket brushing against his head where it hung over him, to leaf through the damn things.

But he had, all the same, and so he really had no one to blame but himself for any emotions that might have come up to grab him by the throat, to clutch ice-cold claws about his heart and still his breath in a lump in his windpipe that he couldn't swallow around.

It was no one's fault but his own that his stomach lurched sickeningly when he flipped open the top-most volume and found Kirishima's smug, smiling mug staring back at him--wrinkles less obvious at the corners of his eyes and mouth given the years back that the photo must have been taken--with one arm around the waist of an attractive young woman he had bent nearly over backwards as he kissed her deeply and flashed their matching rings for the cameraman.

The facing page was covered with souvenirs from a reception hall, ticket stubs for a flight to Guam, a tiny zip-sealed clear package containing a palm's-worth of sand from some far-off beach stapled to the backing.

The page after that felt like spying, something he shouldn't be seeing because _it wasn't his life_ \--it was the life of these two people who'd been young and happy and in love: Kirishima passed out on the couch with his mouth hanging open just slightly, his wife wearing one of his wrinkled shirts with her back to the camera while she cooked a messy breakfast, and an awkwardly angled one that seemed to have been taken one-handed by Kirishima as his wife lay half on top of him, using his chest to catnap (in an eerily familiar position Yokozawa had experienced in the reverse with the guy).

Pages later, the shots of their newlywed life gave way to crumpled-up receipts for pre-natal vitamins, an illegible ultrasound printout, and several shots of a very pregnant, very put-out wife who seemed to share Yokozawa's feelings for Kirishima's inappropriate antics when she was in such a state.

And then, there was a baby in Kirishima's arms, red and skinny and obviously squirming if his expression was anything to go by, but there was no denying the veritable glow he'd taken on in the succeeding images--feeding the baby, dozing with her in his arms, teaching her all of the secrets fathers must teach their children in a candid shot at home.

And on the next page, suddenly the baby was not so much a baby anymore, crawling in this shot, toddling after Kirishima in the next, tugging at her mother's apron in the next, turning bright brown eyes to the camera and showing off the gleaming smile she'd carry with her for years to come.

They'd been _so happy_ \--all of them. It was easy to see, the contentment still all but seeping through the film despite years spent stuffed onto a shelf in a closet. The smiles on all of the subjects in the pictures stayed bright and honest if not a little tried and tired as the pages went on, settings shifting from a living room couch or kitchen table to a hospital room with thin, sliding doors and a comfortable, aseptic environment with nothing but the best in palliative care--

"Ah--"

Yokozawa shifted in place, neck turning so quickly he felt a cramp slice through it, wincing and biting his lip to keep from crying out as he scrambled to shut the books and push them away, off of him, anywhere but touching his person because these weren't his, he wasn't supposed to be looking at these, he hadn't meant to get drawn in, they just-- "Kiri…Kirishima-san, I didn't hear you…" He swallowed thickly, mouth dry, and glanced about as if visually groping for an excuse to offer up as to why he was sitting here in Kirishima's closet rifling through his private memories when--

"My lunch got cut short; Sensei had a previous engagement…" He trailed off, letting his gaze wander over the mess that Yokozawa had made in his rush to try and remove all evidence that he'd just committed an egregious faux pas that shot past _nosy_ and landed firmly in _insensitive asshole_ territory.

Yokozawa didn't dare make a move, frozen in place, horror having stricken him of all ability to form coherent sentences or even attempt to correct any misconceptions Kirishima might have about why he was here. Before he could bite his tongue in an attempt to instill some life in it again, though, Kirishima had dropped into a low squat and run his finger over the spine of the last volume Yokozawa had been leafing through, expression blank and eyes somewhere far away.

"It hurts more, you know. Losing them to sickness." He cocked his head just to the side to try to find the others that Yokozawa had tossed aside in his haste. "If it were--I dunno, an accident or something like that, something quick and over before you could blink--surely it'd be easier. But this…having to sit there and watch them slip away, not being able to do anything…just a long goodbye…" He licked his lips and glanced away, huffing softly. "Well, it fucking sucks."

He didn't know what to do; there was nothing to say, nothing to ease the stiff, awkward silence between them, thicker and heavier than anything they'd ever brought upon themselves on their own, and he'd never counted himself as the _comforting_ type. What were you supposed to do when you'd hurt someone you cared about, deeper and sharper in its thoughtlessness than anything you could have wrought with your words, harsh as you know them to be?

He flinched, like he'd been shocked, when he felt Kirishima's fingers trail lightly over his knee, the warmth spreading from his fingertips palpable even through his pant material. "…Yokozawa, I--"

"I didn't mean to see--" he apologized shortly, voice rough with emotion and muffled where he had his face pressed into Kirishima's neck, arms clasped tight around his shoulders and squeezing more tightly than he knew was comfortable, but he just _couldn't_ ease up. "I didn't--you shouldn't have to--"

"Geez, shut up," Kirishima managed weakly, voice straining as he was crushed against Yokozawa. "You didn't do anything wrong, idiot." But his fingers still fisted tightly in the shirt material stretched over Yokozawa's broad back as he clung for dear life.

Sometime, some day in the future, they'd take these books out together and sit there on the living room couch with beers in their hands as they leafed through the memories, Kirishima narrating everything properly, telling Yokozawa about how the flowers his wife had worn in her hair had made his allergies act up and he'd spent the whole service sneezing and wheezing, and how their first apartment had been built in the 70s and probably hadn't even been up to code but Hiyo had loved sitting out on the balcony on her papa's knee, and how every year he brought a bouquet of those damned flowers to her grave because then at least maybe Hiyo'd think it was just the allergies choking him up, and she wouldn't have to feel bad.

But that day wasn't today, so for now Yokozawa would just sit here on his knees, leaning up and into Kirishima and ignoring the way his thigh was starting to cramp beneath him, wishing he could tell the guy he didn't always have to be smooth and collected and calm, that Yokozawa showed him his own ugly side often enough--he could certainly stand to show _his_ ugly side in return.

He couldn't say those things, but when Kirishima just squeezed tighter and whispered again that _you didn't do anything wrong_ , Yokozawa got the feeling he understood all the same.


	17. Torn

More than anything, you want her to know you don't love her any less now than you did the day you married her.

You never stopped--your love for her never petered out or cooled, not when you had your first _real_ fight over you breaking your fourth dinner date for a last-minute discussion with an author before you had to hand-deliver a manuscript to the printers, not when you realized that _til death do you part_ actually _meant_ something to you, and not when you got in the car this morning and made sure Hiyo was strapped in safely behind you as you drove out to this little cemetery on the edge of the city.

You love her, deeply so--but at the same time, you feel you have a duty to share some of this love with another, not to waste it on the dead who can but appreciate it and never return it. You're sure she'd understand as well, which leaves you feeling a bit confused as to why you feel the need to explain this to her.

If she can see you now, surely she's seen you settle onto a bar stool next to a drunken coworker trying to black himself out with booze, surely she hasn't missed the way your lips quirk up in amusement around him (to his great irritation), surely she understand what it means when you tangle your fingers in his tie and tug him close to slide your lips against his, closing your eyes and whining into his mouth such obscene things it makes you blush to stand here remembering them even know.

And yet, despite _knowing_ all of this on some level, you want to make sure you go about this the right way.

It's the first time you've brought yourself before her marker since you met Yokozawa (five months, thirteen days…), and while you've done this every year like clockwork for nearly ten years now…this time, it feels different. Because this year, for the first time ever, you feel like you've let her down in some way.

People 'move on' all the time, it's natural. People divorce, people are widowed, people just drift apart--that you've found yourself drawn to someone new, emotions welling up inside of you that you honestly thought you'd never _seriously_ feel again… you'd always thought you were a one-woman man.

You chuckle softly to yourself at this--because technically, you still _are_.

It's…different, though. Yokozawa _needs_ you, he needs someone to love him for all he is, and there aren't a lot of people up to that task, but _dammit_ you're ready and willing and able, and you like to think he knows that by now. It's selfish in a lot of ways--you've had all this love, this passion building up inside of you since you had to say goodbye those years back, and it's straining for release, begging for someone to accept it, to let you love them, and even though you feel like you're betraying her a little in doing so, you want _so badly_ to feel that way again.

You miss what it felt like being so utterly in love with someone, wanting to make them the center of your universe, to greet them first thing in the morning and last thing at night (though admittedly, nowadays sometimes it's Hiyo who manages the first-thing-in-the-morning greetings).

You miss the _being_ part of being in love, the part where different things happen every day and you find out something new about this person you're sharing your life with, and maybe they find out things about you as well--some things they like, some they don't, but it's always together and it's always something that will go towards lessening the distance between you.

It's easy to hold on to her memory, you want to reassure her; you've got scrapbooks and old home movies that you plan on showing Hiyo some day, because it'll mean more to her than it does to you, you suspect. You had the best years of your life with your wife, but Hiyo had only just gotten to know her before suddenly you were all she had for a parent. And just because you've taken off your wedding ring now doesn't mean you don't remember the weight, don't remember her sliding it onto your hand for the first time, doesn't mean you intend to break any of the vows you exchanged when you put it on.

But just as it was a symbol of your love for her when you put it on, so is it a symbol of your love for Yokozawa when you took it off, and you hope that she appreciates this, that somewhere she sees this gesture and is applauding you for your bravery, for not letting yourself be dragged down by the past and caught up in her memory but are instead moving on and sharing that love she so appreciated with someone who needs it far more than she does, who can return it full force and make you as happy as she desperately wants you to be.

You don't love her any less, you repeat in your mind: you just love _him_ that much _more_ now. And you hope she forgives you for that, if it's anything worth apologizing for.

At your side, Hiyo squeezes your hand, and you realize you've been standing here in silence for far longer than she's comfortable with. From far away, you feel the soft brush of her hair against your skin as she leans against your side. "I wish Oniichan could meet her some time."

You're not too sure Yokozawa would feel the same, but you at least share the sentiment, and you squeeze her hand back. "I think she'd like him." And it's not a lie; she and Yokozawa have a lot in common, after all: they both love you, and you think that'd be common enough ground to get a conversation started.


	18. Time

He's not ashamed he didn't consider it before getting involved with Kirishima. Quite the contrary--he would've felt mortified if it had even once crossed his mind. And what he feels now, giving it some thorough thought for the first time, really, isn't necessarily regret or disappointment or anything of that sort at all--on this point he wants to be clear.

But well, he's got a healthy sex drive, as does his partner, and while he could do with less frequent instances of inappropriate comments in front of certain parties, when he's in the mood, he has little issue with letting Kirishima think he's just _that_ good at seducing Yokozawa instead of it simply being a case of Yokozawa not having gotten any in a while despite having grown accustomed to fairly regular sexual encounters with certain members of the _Japun_ editing team who will go nameless.

Still--he's not a teenager, and neither is Kirishima, and they can both keep it fairly well in their pants at work and while Hiyo's around for the most part…except for the fact that far too often that's _every waking moment_.

Yokozawa moved in a matter of months after being 'proposed' to, as it were, but they still sleep in their respective rooms--a point on which Yokozawa has remained firm, at least until Hiyo enters middle school--which puts a stop to any potential morning activities. Granted, Hiyo herself is rather effective at ensuring nothing untoward happens between them as well, bounding into their rooms as soon as she's awake to pester Yokozawa about what's for breakfast and Kirishima about where her favorite jumper is. If it's a weekday, it's off to work where Kirishima will be confined to his desk until dusk and Yokozawa will be out making his rounds, wearing through his soles; if it's a weekend, there's likely work to catch up on or chores or errands to take care of if other plans haven't already been made. By the time night comes around, even with Hiyo in bed, they're the both of them so exhausted that there's little to do but turn in and rinse-and-repeat the whole cycle in the morning.

Maybe if there were more hours in the day, maybe if Kirishima didn't have a kid (a kid Yokozawa loved like his own, but a kid nonetheless), maybe if their careers didn't demand 120% of their time and energy…then they could have a more or less normal relationship with dates (cleverly disguised as fancy dinners followed by getting smashed at the nearest izakaya of choice) and getting to know one another and building a life together and, well, _more sex_.

But this is all simply wishful thinking, hypotheticals that bear no effect on the present situation, and so they're left, stuck in this loop of life that drains their drive and energy until eventually they're simply going through the motions of their daily routine and Yokozawa can't _honestly_ remember the last time Kirishima touched him, can barely remember the way his stomach tended to curl pleasantly leaving him short of breath when Kirishima pushed him against the nearest available surface and refused to let him up again until he groaned his desperate plea to that end. He thinks about bringing it up--but he can imagine the insufferable look that would situate itself squarely on Kirishima's face if Yokozawa let slip that he might, perhaps, maybe kind of miss interactions more intimate than, "Please pass the salt."

He knows it's gotten particularly bad when his gaze in the mirror of the men's room at Marukawa travels to the stall furthest from the door--the handicapped stall--and he ponders offhandedly the chances of their being caught if he ambushed Kirishima and dragged him in when he came in to wash his hands after lunch. Afternoon trysts on company property are _far_ from his style (reeking more of Masamune and Onodera, if he's honest), but some primordial part of himself had started thrumming with excitement at the notion, pumping blood to places it had no business being at 12:45 on a Tuesday afternoon.

So, he allows that maybe…something should be done about this. He hasn't a clue _what_ (or rather, hasn't a clue how to go about it), but he's fairly certain that if they one or both don't break down and proposition the other before the day is through, he's going to grab Henmi and make use of that stall.

* * *

Blessedly, he's saved from having to explain himself to his subordinate and a court-appointed member of human resources by Kirishima sauntering in after the floor's been mostly emptied, sidling up close beside him and attempting to use his proximity to pester Yokozawa into making the first move. Yokozawa frowns to himself, rereading the same line in an e-mail three times before admitting to himself he's not going to get any more work done with Kirishima's hips in his peripheral vision, and he diverts attention from the fact that he's giving in by leaning back and wiping his hands over his face, feigning simple fatigue from a long day's work. "Is your rag so slow that the editor-in-chief can wander away from his desk whenever he wants?"

Kirishima turns on his heel and leans back against the desk, practically sitting atop it, and he crosses his arms as he rakes his gaze over Yokozawa, calculating. "It's nearly 7; they've all gone home. Like we should be."

At this, Yokozawa glances around for the first time in a good hour, realizing that he is, in fact, one of the last on the floor, with only the faint voices of a group of stragglers echoing from the other end of the room. There's a panel of dividers providing crude separation from the next island of desks over, but it's certainly nothing resembling the privacy he's found himself practically begging for over the past few days. He clears his throat and wets his lips, straightening up. "I--suppose this can wait til tomorrow."

"Damn straight it can; get moving."

Yokozawa's grateful for the excuse to be back on his prickly guard: "I'm going already--go get your own crap together and I'll meet you in the lobby."

"I'm ready now," Kirishima returns, his voice pitched a little higher than normal and a _sure_ sign he's hiding something--and this puts Yokozawa on edge. "What?"

"You're…where's your briefcase?"

"Upstairs."

"Shouldn't you get it?"

Kirishima glances around the room, pushing off from the desk and feigning interest in the scheduling board tacked to one of the dividers. "It's fine."

His attitude's starting to grate. "You're saying you don't need to bring anything home? You're completely free tonight--absolutely noth…" But he doesn't finish his accusation--not because it's not his place to coddle Kirishima, but because it's finally sunk in that Kirishima not toting home the briefcase he usually has practically bolted to his wrist is his subtle way of telling Yokozawa he's making himself available--and that Yokozawa should try similar.

Kirishima's a busy guy; it's a rough enough schedule just being the editor-in-chief of the flagship product of Marukawa, but the fact that he's refused to relinquish control over his pet authors means he's still laid up on the couch for at least two hours a night just going through draft checks or talking through critiques on the phone with authors in Hokkaido, Kobe, Hiroshima, Fukuoka. He doesn't just _get_ a free night--he has to work his ass off to _make_ one.

Like he's apparently done.

He turns around again, hands shoved in his pockets, and he raises a brow. "Are you ready, then?"

Yokozawa swallows, throat suddenly dry again. "…Hiyori?"

Kirishima starts to saunter back towards the door, nonchalant as anything. "Spending the night at my parents' place."

Yokozawa quickly stands, stomach twisting at all the things Kirishima's saying and yet not saying, and any other day--any other day he'd roll his eyes and keep his cool, because this is bordering on ridiculous, but the pieces are falling into place in his mind now, and suddenly he very much doesn't want to be at Marukawa anymore.

He folds down his laptop screen and quickly glances around his desk--a proposal from one of the Sapphire people wanting to put on a fair for one of their authors (it can wait til Monday), a note from Henmi earlier in the afternoon with a phone number to return a call (not urgent), his cell phone (battery at two bars), and an uneaten package of curry pan he'd been saving for an afternoon snack and forgotten all about.

He slips the phone into his vest pocket and pushes his chair in, wincing as it squeaks across the floor on wheels in need of oil. Kirishima doesn't move from where he's leaned against the doorjamb, watching Yokozawa with a calculating gaze, and when Yokozawa flips up the collar on his coat, jerking his head toward the hallway, he has the gall to ask, "Your briefcase?"

He purses his lips and braces a hand against Kirishima's forearm, guiding him out into the hall. "It's fine."

* * *

It's the longest, most awkward train ride of his life; never before has he been so acutely aware of someone's presence, nor felt so suffocated under the pressure of knowing what was waiting for him at the end of the ride. It's not some sense of impending _doom_ , but the tension's nearly unbearable, and if Kirishima so much as touches him, speaks an untoward word, he's going to get off at the next stop and change trains to head--somewhere. A cheap room he can get a good night's sleep in and wake up with a hopefully clearer head. Alone.

Not because he doesn't want this--but because he _does_.

He wishes he weren't _like_ this--that he could be one of those people who has no problem being open about their wants, desires, wishes, especially with people he cares about. But while he has no issues doing this when faced with the likes of Hiyori, it's always the adults who give Yokozawa problems, and her father is no different.

So he's forced to stand here, gripping the hand stirrup above for dear life and trying to just close his eyes and slow his breathing and not feel Kirishima's heat standing next to him, palpably washing over him, his cologne still strong despite a long day and reminding Yokozawa of the warm, dark bedroom waiting just three stations and a twenty-minute walk away.

Blessedly, Kirishima seems lost in his own thoughts, and not even on arriving at their station does he press Yokozawa for conversation, taking the lead with long strides when they reach street level after two escalators and a short flight of steps. Yokozawa attempts to distract himself with thoughts of what they might have for dinner--since Hiyo obviously won't have anything in the works. Delivery? He's been wanting to try that little Chinese place that just opened around the corner from the Family Mart by the station, so perhaps this would be the perfect opportunity. And what of the work he's just put off til the next day? He recalls vaguely that there'd been some talk of a planning meeting scheduled some time this week, but so far no word's come down on any particulars. He'll need to consult his boss when he gets in the next morning--and that's after dropping in at the new Kumaya Books that opened just on the south side of Shibuya Station, to see how their sales are going and if they can compete reasonably with the ones outside Hachiko.

He's just considering pulling out his phone to see whenabouts he needs to catch the subway the next morning--when a soft ding pulls him back to the present, and he realizes his feet have brought him, like a homing pigeon, squarely to the front lobby of their building, where their elevator has just arrived. Kirishima's giving him a look, and it's strange--because it's his typical blank expression, but Yokozawa can see just under the surface that he's just as tense, can practically hear him screaming in his mind _get in the car get in the car get in the car_ because the lobby isn't their living room, the elevator isn't Kirishima's bedroom, and those things still matter but very soon _won't_.

The sound of the key sliding home is probably the best thing he's heard in weeks, just because once they're over that threshold, once that door's shut soundly behind them, maybe some of this pressure will ease and he'll be able to stop jumping at shadows.

But Kirishima just silently slips off his shoes in the genkan, draping his coat across a low hook on the rack and padding softly away towards the living room, not even a backward glance to urge Yokozawa to follow, no indication that he's got any plans. It's almost unsettling--hell, it _is_ unsettling, he'll go ahead and allow: Kirishima's never been subtle, nor has he ever been all that adept at picking up on any less-than-forthright cues. It's always got to be straightforward, to the point with him--or he'll just go for the most obvious (and usually most incorrect) explanation for Yokozawa's actions.

And yet tonight, the one night Yokozawa would actually appreciate some of that to-the-pointness he's come to expect from Kirishima, because foreplay's a luxury afforded those who can remember the last time they fucked, he's being given the runaround.

Does he expect Yokozawa to start things off? Surely after living together this long, Kirishima's learned that Yokozawa won't soon initiate anything if he can help it--and what's a few more one-offs to his own hand in the shower in the long run, really?

Or fuck--has Yokozawa somehow, some way, completely misread this entire situation? Was the briefcase comment simply Kirishima explaining that he had a light workload? Was Hiyo staying with her grandmother only because she _wanted to stay with her grandmother_? Was Yokozawa standing here, half-hard just from stepping into the genkan and catching sight of the bedroom door just down the hall, for absolutely no reason at all, about to be pressed for his opinion on what would be best for dinner--Indian or Chinese?--or should he run to the conbini for some retort sauces?

There's a soft sigh, long-suffering but gentle, and he feels a tug at his sleeve as Kirishima steps back into his field of vision and grabs him by the elbow, urging, "You gonna stand in the hallway all night? Come on…" Yokozawa follows robotically, ignoring the way his fingers are now twitching, itching to touch some bit of Kirishima back and make him feel at least a fraction of the way Yokozawa's feeling right now. It isn't fair.

He finds himself being led like a child into--not the bedroom, but the living room, and Kirishima collapses onto the cushions with a grunt, tugging insistently at the hem of Yokozawa's shirt when he doesn't immediately join him, instead glancing around, utterly confused as to what the guy's trying to tell him. "Sit your ass down already, geez. Take a load off."

He wants to protest, wants to ask what the hell Kirishima's doing, why they're alone-- _really_ for the first time in weeks and he hasn't already been pressed against the nearest available flat surface and subjected to one of Kirishima's blistering kisses that he knows he ought to hate for the sheer fact that no one should be allowed to know they're _that good_ but is always betrayed by his body. He wants to ask these things, demand an explanation, but instead he just slumps against the couch beside Kirishima, tense as ever.

"You don't have to be so uptight."

"Eh?"

"I'm not going to jump you or anything--" He pauses and cocks his head to the side, "I mean, you'll see it coming. Just, right now…" His head falls back against the cushions, and he closes his eyes and gropes blindly until his fingers find Yokozawa's wrist and follow the bone structure down across his palm and then thread between his fingers. "I wanna sit with you for a while."

Yokozawa's gaze flicks down to where Kirishima's touching him-- _must_ he do that, right now?--and he swallows and manages thickly, "You've been sitting all day."

"Yeah, but not with you."

It's not really the response he wanted, but he can't say he didn't expect it, and he settles in, slowing his breathing and suddenly feeling very tired. It's something he's experienced far too little for his liking--the warm comfort of sleeping with another body stretched out beside you--and he's dangerously close to thinking about suggesting it tonight. He's going to be letting himself go in a lot of ways he's not entirely sure he's comfortable with, may as well throw another log on the fire.

Kirishima shifts next to him, and Yokozawa can feel his shoulders tense where they're pressed up against each other. "…You didn't bring your briefcase home." It's almost surprised, like he's realizing it properly for the first time--like he hadn't stood there and watched Yokozawa purposefully leave the damn thing behind to prove a point.

Instead, he replies, "Yeah, so? You didn't either."

"Yeah--but, I did it because I wanted to be alone with you, without any distractions." Straightforward, as always. He twists around to stare head-on. ""Why'd _you_ do it?"

"Huh?" His tone is incredulous--haven't they already been through this?--and he bristles at what he takes to be another shining example of Kirishima Not Getting It. "What the hell do you mean _why did I do it_?" Kirishima just raises his brows, waiting, and Yokozawa feels his face heat up-- _this_ is what he hates, those moments where he isn't sure if Kirishima's being an ass or if he genuinely doesn't quite realize the implications. It isn't the first time he's found himself wishing Kirishima were sharper when it comes to things between them, even if there are the odd moments when he finds the guy damned endearing on some level. "Just--stop asking stupid questions."

"It's not stupid--"

"It's stupid; questions like that you should be able to figure out on your own."

"You _do_ realize there's something to be said by hearing it from the source, right?"

And now Yokozawa's got a much better idea on which side of the fence this instance of Kirishima-ness is falling. He turns his glare, sharp, on Kirishima, suddenly feeling his blood start to thrum in his ears at the thrill of their banter catching rhythm. "If you keep pressing, this night isn't going to go at all like you're probably hoping."

Kirishima has the gall to snort derisively. "That's a start I guess…" A pause. "Na, Yokozawa."

"Hm?" He cocks his head to the side--and has only a moment of mental preparation before Kirishima slides a hand up his chest, over the long strip of exposed neck, to cup just along his jawline, fingers playing in the little hairs just below his ear as he angles Yokozawa's head to press their lips together, pausing with held breath and just taking in the closeness and body heat radiating between them--before slipping his tongue between Yokozawa's lips to deepen the kiss.

Now that it's here, Yokozawa's mind shifts into overdrive, and he finds his cares and concern about appearing overeager are starting to fade and dull, until he can't imagine why he'd ever want to brace his hands against Kirishima's chest and push away rather than fisting in the material and pulling him forward, over, down to lie sprawled on top of Yokozawa as he arches backward, hips brushing up to ease Kirishima forward more until their weight's evenly distributed across the both of them.

He's breathing hard, panting not thirty seconds in, but he maintains it's not for lack of stamina but because _shit_ he wishes there were three of him, doing three different things in three different positions all at once. He wants to sit here and kiss the living daylights out of Kirishima (or more than likely, vice versa); he wants to shove the guy backwards and down until he finds his grip on his cock, jerking the both of them fast and slick til they come in concert; and he wants--he isn't sure, maybe he wants it both ways, maybe he wants Kirishima squirming beneath him trying to keep his balls from being crushed against the mattress as Yokozawa pounds into him, working through all the pent-up stress from nearly three weeks of having to jerk himself off in the shower because he's too chickenshit to say something when Kirishima turns in every night after asking him to be sure the front door's locked before he goes to bed himself; maybe he wants to fuck facing each other like Kirishima's always whining for because then they can kiss and get off at the same time.

Kirishima mumbles something wetly against his lips-- _bed--room, we need to_ \--and it takes all the energy he possesses to ease himself back upright, pressing insistently at Kirishima's chest with, "Then get the hell off me." The guy only whines in response, a half-grunt, half-whimper that sounds too childish to be coming from a man his age, and Yokozawa just snorts and rolls his hips to scoot off the couch, being sure to plant his feet firmly before he tries to stand.

Somehow, by the grace of some higher power, they manage to stumble into the bedroom, Kirishima's shirt losing a few buttons (his own damn fault; meaning he can sew them back on himself, as far as Yokozawa is concerned) before finding its resting place in a corner of the living room in their haste. Yokozawa is more careful with removing his own clothes, much to Kirishima's frustration, but shortly they are both disrobed from the waists up and eager to make quick work from the waists down.

Kirishima takes the lead and falls backwards onto the bed, grabbing Yokozawa by the belt-loops as he's working with a stubborn zipper to force him to balance with one knee on the mattress. He lifts up and laves a long, wet stripe with his tongue from Yokozawa's navel up as far as he can reach, breathing hot and heavy against his goose-pimpled skin. "Fuck, let me do you first."

" _Huh_?"

He bats Yokozawa's hands away and nearly busts the zipper, fingers scrabbling over Yokozawa's heated skin as he tugs his pants and underwear down in one smooth motion before slowly, carefully scraping one finger up from the base of Yokozawa's now-stiff shaft and back down again. "I'm fit to burst already here--I won't last long. Then you can fuck me or whatever, I don't care."

Yokozawa releases a sharp grunt, placing both hands quickly on Kirishima's shoulders as silent warning to not tease if he's not going to go through with it. "Just-- _ngh_ \--how many _times_ are you expecting this to last?" He splays one hand out flat against Kirishima's chest and shoves, hard, satisfied with the winded _oof_ he receives in response. Kirishima quickly recovers, though, frowning at the force and wriggling snakelike to ease his undergarments off.

He juts his chin out, challenging as Yokozawa slides forward to follow him onto the bed. "Why? Worried you won't be able to keep up with your elder? I thought you a young and virile man, Yokozawa-sa--" He's quickly cut off, though, by Yokozawa forcibly resuming their earlier kissing; it's more pleasurable by far this way, Kirishima's lips occupied thus and not flapping about in inane teasing.

They pass a few silent moments just languidly kissing like that--enjoying for a moment no nagging pressure to keep their voices down, to make this quick and quiet, to just get off and get out. It feels like it's been ages since they were able to focus 110% on one another, and when Yokozawa gives himself over to it, it feels _amazing_ , just being able to close his eyes and focus all his energies on making himself and this person he's missed (really, honestly) feel good.

His breath hitches in his chest, and he draws back just enough to catch Kirishima's eye in the low light of the bedroom--and he frowns. "Where the hell do you think you're touching?" A slick finger brushes against him again in response, and he clamps down on the still-natural response to pull away from the probing digit, not entirely rebuffing Kirishima's advances.

"If you have to ask, it really _has_ been too long…" Kirishima chuckles, tilting his head back again in invitation, and Yokozawa reluctantly lets his hips settle down, cock nestled snugly in the pocket of space between their stomachs as he forces himself to relax and accept Kirishima's finger. The kissing goes a long ways towards making the preparation bearable, but it's slow and gentle and _not_ what he wants right now, and he eases away from Kirishima's lips after a few quiet moments, wiping away the trail of saliva beading between them with the back of one hand, and lifts up his hips to slide down Kirishima's body. "What--the _hell_ , what're you--"

"Don't pitch a fit, god--" And he punctuates this order by batting away Kirishima's hand that'd just been fondling him. When Kirishima lifts up on his elbows, though, protests perched on his lips, Yokozawa gives him a sharp look and braces one hand against the bed, using the other to guide Kirishima's stiff cock to his mouth. It jerks against his dry lips, and he licks reflexively, drawing a harsh gasp from Kirishima--which goes a long way towards restoring Yokozawa's confidence in this endeavor.

Kirishima's not a large man--but shoving something the size of a male member into any orifice it isn't traditionally meant for is going to be met with some difficulty, and Yokozawa takes his time in finding a delicate balance between making this as pleasurable as possible for Kirishima and not choking to death. From the way Kirishima's heartrate is noticeably elevated and his breathing labored--he's succeeded.

Just when he's found a comfortable rhythm of sucking just so at the crown before pressing down and sucking in hard on the upswing, Kirishima's scrabbling at his shoulders, panicked almost, and pushing him off--off and down onto his back, body trembling with energy as he rolls on a condom with one hand and uses the other to haphazardly rub lubricant over anything and everything he can touch. There's a moment of panic--they usually take this slower, are more careful in their preparation, but Kirishima's already leaning over him, face close to his own and breathing shallow as he lines himself up and noses in, "Not that I didn't appreciate the fuck out of that, but you're just too much--and I've gotta be inside you the first round."

Yokozawa knows he should say something here, something gruff and long-suffering, or snippy and snarky to even the score, but Kirishima's frustrating forthrightness has him bowled over, and all he can do is hang on, arms wrapped around the strong neck and back leaning over him, with, "Then get to it."

Kirishima's lips quirk up at the sides, the way they do when he's just too overwhelmed to be mouthy, and Yokozawa thinks for a moment he's going to kiss him again--but instead he pulls back and braces his hands on Yokozawa's bent knees, shifting his hips until he slips inside and not pausing until he's buried to the hilt. Yokozawa grimaces--definitely been too long, and horniness and adrenaline only go so far--and bites his lip to keep from embarrassing himself, but Kirishima seems lost in his own experience and doesn't bother Yokozawa with his worrying tendencies, instead apparently taking a moment to regroup before he comes too quickly.

It passes in a flash, though, and then Kirishima is leaning forward again to balance against the bed and arch his back to pull his hips out before letting them fall back with a loud slap of flesh connecting, repeating this a few times before working up a rhythm and using his obliques to inject real power into his thrusts. It's getting all a bit teeth-jarring in intensity, and the guy still hasn't managed to put any thought into changing up the angle and making it more pleasurable for the one on bottom, but Yokozawa supposes sometimes you just want to fuck and not worry, and Kirishima's allowed to have nights like that.

He reaches a hand down, groping blindly towards his crotch to help bring himself off, and grunts in surprise when  it's slapped away and Kirishima curls a fist protectively around his cock, giving it a few strokes to keep it interested but nothing more. "What the _hell_ \--"

The thrusts slow in pace but not in intensity, and Kirishima just stares at him, unblinkinking, pupils blown wide in the low light. "I'll take care of you, just--give me a second more--" And he's not lying--it really is only a second more before he's digging his fingers in to the flesh of Yokozawa's thighs, hips shaking with the short, desperately punching thrusts he executes as he climaxes with a soft cry, accustomed more to nights when the both of  them have to watch their voices or risk rousing other members of the household. Yokozawa can feel him swell within and shivers as Kirishima continues to thrust a final few passes for good measure before he's spent himself.

After a few moments of long, deep breaths, Kirishima finally slips free--but rather than going about his usual business of cleanup, he simply shifts back on the bed and swallows thickly, pressing Yokozawa's legs apart to give ample access to the stiff, straining cock still jutting up proudly and desperate for attention. "Sorry," he apologizes weakly, almost abashed in his tone, and Yokozawa instantly feels the urge to forgive rising, annoyingly enough.

"Just make it worth it," he grouses, leaning up onto his elbows--because while he'll never admit it, he _loves_ watching Kirishima go down on him. The way that shaggy brown hair falls in his eyes, his long lashes stark against his cheek from the angle and cheeks hollowed out where he likes to linger on the crown because he knows Yokozawa's extra-sensitive there and uses it for pleasure rather than to tease as he might have been expected.

Those thin lips that work wonders against Yokozawa's own are equally skilled wrapped around the good few centimeters of cock he can take in, and his tongue traces lightly over every veiny hill and valley it finds, circling at the crown and lapping away the bit of liquid Yokozawa's been leaking since they'd started shucking their clothes before laving back down the shaft.

His orgasm sneaks up on him, pooling at the base of his cock before corkscrewing up when he catches Kirishima's tongue dart out, pink and glistening with saliva as he tongues the slit--he just looks so determined, so focused, and Yokozawa's reminded all at once of how _hard_ he always works: for his company, for his family, for Yokozawa. A wave of emotion washes over him and has him executing a single punching thrust into Kirishima's mouth, the light scrape of teeth against overly sensitized flesh enough to push him over the edge.

Kirishima coughs, and Yokozawa can practically hear him already complaining _a little warning would've been nice_ , but it's all background noise as he slumps back against the bed and takes in deep breaths, shivering from head to toe in the wake of pleasure.

Kirishima leans off to the side and coughs, spitting into what Yokozawa hopes is a strategically placed trash can. "Sorry," he apologizes again, unnecessarily this time, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"I thought I was supposed to get to fuck you," Yokozawa complains, not completely genuinely, as he attempts to catch his breath. There's a beat of silence, and then he feels a warm, solid wall of human body heat slide up alongside him, long and lean and just brushing him at random points of contact.

"You can; I'm hungry now though."

"Maybe you shouldn't have sent the best cook in the family to spend the night at her grandparents', then."

Kirishima snorts beside him, voice languid and content. "I'll grab a bowl of the cat's food if it means I get to fuck you all night."

Yokozawa rolls his eyes at the crude remark--but he's too lazy to do much more, and he slowly shifts to sit upright. "...I'm sure we've got better than that."

Kirishima drapes one arm around his waist, eventually urging him back down. "Nah, nothing better than spending the night with you."

It's sappy, classic Kirishima, and Yokozawa hates it--except for the part where he kind of loves it. And kind of agrees.


	19. Bother

"And then--here, click 'okay', and then…that's it!" Kirishima twisted around to catch the expression on the young girl's face, amused when he found a bright white smile flashed his way as Yuki-chan and Hiyo scrambled past each other towards the printer, old and dusty from disuse. "Careful there--let it dry once it's out."

"Ri~ght," Hiyo called back dutifully, already tittering away with her friend about the shot Kirishima had been wrangled into pulling from the video he'd shot during his daughter's field day. They'd both been on him as soon as he'd gotten home from work--an early night, as Yokozawa had professed an appointment to drop by the main branch of one of their best-selling stores and would therefore likely be heading straight back to his place afterwards--and he'd only now finally managed to frame the perfect shot that could satisfy, printing it out for the young girl to tote back home.

"Papa--Papa! Can I walk Yuki-chan back to her apartment?"

Hiyo's eyes were big and round, just how she knew to make them to best wheedle Kirishima's acquiescence, and he sighed and nodded, adding as an afterthought, "But--make sure you come _right back_. No hanging around and being a nuisance until Yuki-chan's mama offers you dinner just to keep you quiet. We're having that curry in the fridge anyways--you know your Oniichan'll give us both an earful if he sees we haven't finished it off the next time he comes over."

"Yes si~r," she sing-songed in reply, snatching up her friend's hand and dashing out the door.

Kirishima watched them go and shook his head, rolling his eyes at the display. Sometimes it was hard to remember she was only 10, just a child, but other times…well, he was reminded of just how young and energetic and rambunctious she truly was.

He leaned back in his seat at the computer desk, cycling through the video on the screen and pausing at random intervals--here, Hiyo standing straight as an arrow in line while the principal gave a long-winded speech; here, Hiyo waving excitedly after picking out Kirishima in the crowd; here, Hiyo rushing to take her place in the dance routine.

Here, Hiyo being scooped up into Yokozawa's arms as he lumbered forward, lighter and more limber than he seemed by far, towards the finish line of their race, a small red card clenched in his teeth as he'd lost use of his arms.

Kirishima frowned, pausing the video--what was with that guy? Him and Hiyo both--Yokozawa wasn't the type to play games, and he definitely wasn't the teasing type. Kirishima liked that about him--he was always honest and blunt and straightforward, and that could be a _hell_ of a lot sexier than some coy shit when it came from someone like Yokozawa.

So why was he being so damn cagey about a stupid piece of construction paper used in an elementary school's field day? It hadn't bugged him so much at first--but his curiosity had been soundly piqued when he'd refused to tell Kirishima what had been written on the thing, until now, nearly a week after the fact, he was sitting here staring at a computer screen wondering if there weren't some photo software out there he could use to enhance the image and see the writing.

He leaned forward onto the desk, chin propped up in both hands, and blurred his vision, frowning. This was ridiculous--he was a grown man for crying out loud, and this was something insignificant in the long run, admittedly, but…something nagged. An irritation. And while he'd usually let Yokozawa's idiosyncrasies roll off his back, this time…he just wanted a simple, straightforward answer to a question.

An answer neither his daughter nor… _whatever_ Yokozawa was seemed inclined to give.

He started at a gentle tapping pressure on his shoulder, stiffening up straight and twisting around. "You can't go to sleep yet, Papa--we haven't even had dinner!" Hiyo'd returned while he was spacing out, it seemed.

"I wasn't sleeping," he countered defensively, then glanced back at the screen when he noticed Hiyo's gaze focusing over his shoulder: he'd paused the video on Yokozawa and Hiyo sharing a quick victory high-five after finishing the race. The card was clenched in his fist, a crumpled mess. "Did Yuki-chan like her picture?"

"Yup!" Hiyo chirped, sidling around to Kirishima's side to stare at the screen with him. "She said to tell you thanks again--her mom wants to frame it."

"Mmm, well good then. If she needs any other shots, she can just let us know."

Hiyo nodded shortly, ponytail flapping about behind her. "…I'm glad Oniichan got to race with me."

"Hmm?" Kirishima started. "What's that--? You mean you didn't want your papa racing for your honor? I'm wounded~" He clutched at his chest dramatically, drawing a giggle from her. "All right fine, I guess he did us proud there. And I probably couldn't have scooped you up like that with my little twig arms."

"You're plenty strong!" She punctuated this by squeezing his biceps gently, frowning at the way her fingers sank into the soft flesh, a sad byproduct of age and a sedentary career. "…Okay, maybe not…" she amended.

" _Oi_ ," Kirishima protested, reaching around to tickle her just at her waist where he knew she was particularly weak, and she giggled and squealed in delight as she struggled to free herself. "That'll teach you to insult your old man."

"You _started_ it," she huffed, breathing hard and standing just out of arm's reach, and then gestured at the paused video. "I was thinking about telling you what was on the card, but I'm definitely not doing it now!"

At this, Kirishima perked up--he hadn't thought about that, about how relatively easy it should be to tease a confession out of his daughter rather than work on the bolted safe that was Yokozawa. He licked his lips, going about the venture as casually as possible. "So what am I gonna have to do, then, to get you to spill?"

She brought a finger to her lips, twisting her hips in place. "Nuh uh! I promised Oniichan. It's our secret."

He frowned. "But--you _said_ you were going to tell me just now. What changed between now and two minutes ago?"

She shrugged. "Now you want to know, though."

"I wanted to know two minutes ago, too."

"Then you should've said something."

"Would you have told me?"

Her grin grew positively devious with shiny white teeth. "Nope! But it's fun seeing you so bothered about something! You never get annoyed like this. Now I know why Oniichan wanted to play this game!"

He huffed in defeat. "I see." Flopping back against his chair, he gestured between them. "So you're not gonna budge, huh? No amount of sweets I can bring home will unseal your lips?" She mimed zipping her mouth shut. "Geez…"

Cocking her head in confusion, she drew a bit closer and crossed her arms. "Why d'ya wanna know so bad anyways? It's just a card."

"I'm just curious--I don't want to know _that_ badly."

"You're getting awfully worked up about something you don't care about, then." She didn't know the _half_ of it.

Kirishima crossed his arms, mimicking her stance; he supposed it made her feel more adult, and perhaps this would make it seem like he viewed her as an equal in this conversation. "Fine--he looked at me."

"Huh?"

"Yoko--your Oniichan. He picked the card up, read it--and then he looked at me." He shrugged. "I just wanna make sure it doesn't say something like 'world's biggest loser' on it and have him be making fun of me behind my back."

Hiyo's lips pursed in confusion, brows slowly knitting, and she opened her mouth a few times as if meaning to start a sentence but giving up halfway. Finally, she settled on shaking her head with a frown. "It definitely didn't say that."

"Huh?"

"It didn't say that."

A pause, and he sized her up, going over her admission in his head. "…But you won't tell me what it said."

"Nope." And the playful note had worked its way back into her voice now, a smile tugging at her lips again. "And that's all you're gonna get out of me, so if you wanna know more, go bug Oniichan."

He snorted softly. "You know full well how that'd go." She shrugged as if to say _not my problem_. "He's lucky to have someone like you protecting his important secrets."

"That's what I told him!" And at this, Kirishima snorted _not_ so softly. Hiyo mirrored his smile, then reached forward and grabbed him by the wrist nearest her with both hands. "I'm hungry--c'mon."

He let himself be dragged towards the kitchen, chest somehow lighter for their conversation even if he hadn't received anything close to a straight response from Hiyo about the contents of the card.

He supposed he could wait--doing so would likely sooner pan out that pumping Yokozawa for information, after all--and content himself with the secure knowledge that well, at least Yokozawa wasn't making fun of him behind his back.

Or at least, he wasn't doing so because of the card.


	20. King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requires you to be familiar with the events in the [recently released short story](http://september.strawberrywine.org/?p=393) to make sense.

"It's a fucking key case, not a treasure chest--you don't have to keep looking at it so intently."

Kirishima glanced up from where he sat on the couch, a glint in his eye as his lips quirked up at their corners, and he gently shook the case in Yokozawa's face, the keys inside clinking together melodically. "It's my first present from you--I'm allowed to stare all I want."

Yokozawa's frown eased into pursed lips. "Keep it up and it'll be your last."

This empty threat did nothing to sour Kirishima's mood, though. "You said I could do whatever I wanted with it--and I want to treasure these last few minutes of my birthday with the thoughtful gift I received from my lover." He snorted at the way Yokozawa rolled his eyes at this display. "You staying the night?"

"…Only because I promised Hiyo she could come with me to pick out a new collar for Sorata in the morning. She's been hounding me about it for a week."

"I wouldn't dream of presuming that you might be staying over out of respect for, say, my birthday." He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, the key case hanging between his legs as he looked up at Yokozawa with one quirked brow. "Or any gifts you might still be inclined to give on this glorious anniversary of my birth."

He could feel the flush starting to stain his cheeks before he even managed an offended scoff. "That's-- _not_ happening, Hiyo's in the next room and--"

"Yeah yeah, I was _kidding_ ," he cut off, waving Yokozawa off with his free hand and glancing back down at the case and turning it over in his hands a few times for good measure, testing the give of the leather-and-metal clasp. "Still can't believe you got me a gift, though."

Yokozawa stilled the protests on his lips, reminding himself Hiyo wasn't here to misinterpret her father's overly liberal comments. "Just…it was your birthday. It's one of those things you have to do--like getting a cake."

"You didn't have to do _that_ either," Kirishima returned.

"You're complaining, then?"

"Not at all." And he still wasn't looking up at Yokozawa, but at least he was smiling a bit more genuinely and a bit less smugly. "It made me happy. Having you be a part of this."

Yokozawa shifted in place, uncomfortable with having Kirishima's appreciation made so plainly evident. "You're annoyingly straightforward sometimes, you know that?"

"Yup," he chirped, glancing up with pursed lips trying not to smile. "Subtlety is not my strong suit."

"So I'm gathering…" he grumbled, brows furrowing in thought. This was _stupid_ \--just because it was the guy's birthday, it didn't excuse the annoying little nagging at the back of his mind that _you could stand to be a bit more giving tonight_. Kirishima was the same irritating prick today as he'd been yesterday, two weeks ago, three months ago, and just because he'd turned a year older didn't mean he was any different or deserving of Yokozawa's acquiescence to certain requests.

But… _fuck_ he kind of liked the way the guy looked when he was genuinely moved by something Yokozawa had done, even if the circumstances made Yokozawa want to just sink into a hole in the ground and hide away forever, so embarrassing had it been. He didn't want to have to deal with the consequences, the overreaction and assumption on Kirishima's part--he just wanted to be able to appreciate the unabashed gratitude and be done with it. 

He counted himself lucky that such niceties as birthdays and major holidays provided ample cover for such moments.

Fists clenching at his sides, he swallowed thickly. "…You…"

"Hm?"

He licked his lips, wary of his voice breaking. "…You--before. You were really joking?"

And now Kirishima's face went slack. "Huh?" This was the worst part--the part before he caught on, and Yokozawa had to grind out his intentions without tripping over himself.

" _Just now_. When you suggested--" He stopped himself short of reminding _what_ had been suggested. "Just--were you joking or not? It's not a fucking inquisition, yes or no."

Kirishima's mouth gaped open inelegantly, and he stammered a bit before he managed to fumble a response, sitting up straighter in place now. "Wait you're--what? I mean, I wasn't saying you…" He licked his lips, and even from three paces away Yokozawa could detect the subtle shift in the air between them, how Kirishima's breaths were coming a hair faster, his pupils starting to dilate in restrained expectation. "… You want to…?"

"No, I don't _want to_ ," he snapped, more sharply than he'd intended, and he bit his tongue to keep from making things worse. "It's just…your birthday, so I figured…"

And if he'd thought this would make Kirishima's face light up or some such sappy crap, he was sorely mistaken--for a dark cloud passed over his features and he completely closed himself off, settling back against the cushions and pocketing the key case. "It's not a big deal--don't worry about it--"

"Fucking _hell_ ," Yokozawa groused at the display; his damned inability to read between lines was downright inconvenient at times. If they were ever going to get along, he was going to need to learn that what Yokozawa _said_ and what he _meant_ didn't always match up, and that much could be gained by learning to successfully divine his underlying intentions without requiring Yokozawa to come out and _say_ it. 

He ran a hand through his hair before snatching up the wrist nearest him and practically dragging Kirishima off the couch towards his bedroom. "I obviously suck at choosing appropriate gifts for you--so if you want something, you're going to have to spell it out. Is that so hard to understand?"

And here, Kirishima dug his heels in and snapped his arm back, rubbing at his wrist and frowning. "What I _want_ is for you to not do shit like this just because it's some special day. I don't care if it's _my_ birthday or the Emperor's birthday or Meat Night at that yakiniku place we went to last month. "

Yokozawa stared in shock, doing his best not to snap back in a louder voice than was appropriate at this late hour, and reined in his urge to lash out. "…You really…are an _idiot_." Kirishima's cheeks flushed--with anger or offense, Yokozawa couldn't tell. "I'm not going to suggest something I don't want to do _any_ day of the week, I don't care if you're on your fucking deathbed." His chest tightened at the wave of obvious relief and realization that washed over Kirishima, almost palpable. "But you're only going to get me offering it on those _special days_ you seem so hung up on." He glanced away and crossed his arms. "So if I were you, I'd quit being a moody asshole and get in the fucking bedroom because I'm sure as hell not doing anything out here."

With a final irritated huff, he turned on his heel and marched into the dimly lit bedroom, shucking his tie and unbuttoning his shirt with fingers trembling from nerves (not excitement, never that) and adrenaline. He felt the air grow close around him as Kirishima drew up from behind, leaning against his back and draping his arms over Yokozawa's shoulders, ignoring the _oof_ of discomfort. "So then you're gonna do something in here?"

"You're--heavy, dammit--" He shrugged his shoulders and stepped out of Kirishima's grasp, tugging off the shirt at last and tossing it to the side. "And--to a certain extent."

"Hmm, would said extent include letting me fuck you?"

"It's your birthday--not your last request."

" _Hey_ , I should be able to ask to--fine then, would it include _you_ fucking _me_ , then?"

He swung the door shut behind them, being sure to close it softly before pausing in consideration--and then pressing the little button to trigger the lock. "You get too mouthy either way; Hiyo's asleep, not deaf." Kirishima rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, his good mood from earlier seeming to dissipate like a puff of smoke. "Just--lie back on the bed, dammit." When his brows quirked up at this, Yokozawa made sure to amend, "And get that fucking smirk off your face or I'll remind you it's almost one in the morning and technically no longer your birthday."

"Yes, sir." Without asking whether it was even necessary, he set to work on his shirt buttons with the deft fingers of one hand and his pants zip with the other, haphazardly tossing his over and undergarments to the side before Yokozawa could even properly organize his thoughts to determine what the _hell_ he was doing here.

This always happened-- _always_. Kirishima said something, made some idle comment or got a _look_ on his face, and Yokozawa acted rashly to correct any errors he may or may not have made, the latter case being particularly shameful as it served simply to prove just how much this stupid family had him wrapped around their collective little fingers. And then, here he was now: Kirishima shifting back naked and beautiful on his bed, chin cocked up in challenge and whites of his eyes practically glowing in the low light filtering through, and Yokozawa was still trying to determine if he should lose his boxers or if that would be too suggestive.

It was just--he felt bad. For being himself. And he felt bad _for feeling bad_ as well, which just left him a swirling mess of emotions that didn't do either of them any good, only serving to drag him down and slow his reactions at important moments such as this.

"Yokozawa," came a calm voice, much calmer than it had any right to be, and Yokozawa forced his gaze to focus not on the bits of Kirishima that drew his eye most immediately--but on his face, his head cocked just to the side and expression open and waiting, not impatient, just…hopeful, each little twitch of a muscle outward evidence of what must have been a mental roar for him to get on with it, all but begging.

He licked his lips, took a deep breath, and then slid onto the bed, balancing himself with one hand as he inched forward until he was practically straddling Kirishima and giving his free hand a good laving with his tongue, layering a sheen of saliva over his palm and fingers. "None of your fucking whining tonight."

Kirishima's eyes were trained on his fingers now, where Yokozawa had let them dangle just above Kirishima's half-hard cock, twitching in anticipation of receiving manual favors, and he nodded slowly, only belatedly finding his voice. "Wouldn't want you getting the idea it feels amazing or anything, would I?"

Yokozawa snorted, feeling his blood rush from his face to other areas as he let himself sink into the mood. "I don't need you panting like a schoolgirl to know I'm good, thank you." 

"Confidence is sexy on you, Yokozawa-san."

"I'll take that over being called adorable again, Kirishima-san." And with this he curled his fingers around the shaft sitting limp in his palm, forming a gentle ring with his thumb and forefinger to coax it into a fuller erection. Kirishima grunted softly at the sensation, brows furrowing as he very obviously clamped down on the urge to be a bit louder. There was no need to let the guy know _that_ was an even bigger compliment.

He shifted on the mattress, using his free hand to guide Kirishima's legs down flatter on the bed so Yokozawa could slide forward a bit further, and once he was comfortable settled atop Kirishima's thighs, and renewed his attentions to the cock in his hand, closing his eyes and imagining it was his own, giving it all of the tugs and swipes he generally used to pleasure himself with. 

So effective was this technique that he almost didn't realize that the fingers which reached out to trail along his shaft were not his own, and his lids fluttered open, breath coming more labored as he furrowed his brow in annoyance. "…the hell are…you…"

Kirishima's chuckle was rough, its irritation smoothed over by the obvious lust bubbling just below the surface. "It's my birthday; I can do whatever I want." He swiped a finger over the crown and teased just at the sensitive strip below it, knowing how it made Yokozawa come undone. "King for a day and all that."

Yokozawa grunted and leaned forward, saving himself from toppling with one hand braced against the mattress while he renewed his attentions to Kirishima's cock with fervor. He let his head duck down until their noses nearly brushed, breath heated and dry where he hovered over Kirishima's lips. "You sure-- _ngh_ , have a way of showing your appreciation."

"You seem…to be mistaking something I also get enjoyment out of--for a show of appreciation." He tilted his head up, cocking his head to the side to worry at Yokozawa's bottom lip for a moment, swiping his tongue across and whispering softly, "Getting you off helps me get off." He punctuated this assertion by sliding his free hand up Yokozawa's chest, along his neck, to cup just at the base of his skull, threading his fingers in his stiff, dark locks and pulling down as he leaned up to press their lips together, darting a tongue inside to stroke against Yokozawa's own.

Spurred on by the pleasure of the kiss, despite never wanting to admit to it, Yokozawa picked up the pace of his stroking, allowing any small grunts or whimpers Kirishima couldn't keep down to be lost between their kisses. He shifted slightly to bring his hips into line with Kirishima's own, huffing his pleasure audibly when their cocks slid together between strokes, their mutual attentions to each other's member compounded with their own shaking hips until it was hard for either to tell who he was actually trying to get off--himself or his partner.

Yokozawa loosened the tension in his wrist when he felt a familiar tightening coil at the base of his shaft, whispering his imminent release against Kirishima's lips in a string of soft curses, and he let his fingers fly over Kirishima's cock as he worked himself off against the tight channel of the hand wrapped around himself, grip just as slick and tight as he endeavored to drag Kirishima along with him.

He felt the shaft in his hand heat and swell as Kirishima peaked, following only moments later as he was spurred into action by the sensation of warm, viscous liquid spurting across his still-quivering fingers.

They continued kissing long after orgasm, despite the irritation of muscles trembling and crying to be released. It was a pain in the ass to get to this point, but once Yokozawa found himself here, Kirishima doing whatever amazing this it was he did that made kissing him feel so _damn_ good, it merited indulging. For a while at least.

Kirishima, of course, was the one to ruin the moment, pulling back just enough to get a word in edgewise, his lips brushing against the side of Yokozawa's mouth as he took advantage of the break to take deep, gulping breaths. "So when's your birthday?"

"Fuck if I'm telling you."

"Now that's not fair," he whined, but he didn't sound nearly put out enough for Yokozawa to feel the slightest bit abashed. "Maybe I'll ask Takano…"

"I'll tell him I'll cut his balls off if he so much as breathes a word to you." Kirishima's returning laugh was probably louder than it should've been at this time of night, and Yokozawa eased onto his side, sliding down next to Kirishima on the mattress. They needed to get cleaned up, needed to put on proper sleepwear--but it was just too comfortable right now.

"Well I certainly wouldn't want you anywhere near his balls."

"Then it sounds like you've got a problem."

"Maybe I'll make up one, then, and Hiyo and I'll just throw you a surprise party when you least expect it."

"The _fuck_ you will. I swear I'm never coming over again--"

"I've got a key to your place now, though. Maybe we'll decorate your apartment while you're off on one of those business trips and--"

" _No_ , you damn well better not--" But he was cut off by Kirishima laughing again and rolling onto his side, one arm straddling Yokozawa as he pressed another heated kiss to his mouth.

And of course, Yokozawa grunted softly and parted his lips, accepting this bit of Kirishima just like he accepted all of the other parts, irritating and amazing in turn. 

It was probably for the best that there was, truly, none other like him. One was more than enough.


	21. Last

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may or may not have been inspired by a fun RP XD

" _Shit_ ," was the soft curse that roused Yokozawa to consciousness, followed by the gentle roll of the mattress beneath his back as Kirishima eased himself into a seated position at his side. Brows furrowed at the dim light of approaching morning filtering through the curtains of Kirishima's bedroom, he cocked his head just to the side to keep his face in shadow and tentatively opened his eyes a crack, Kirishima's huddled back looming in his view, a fleshy blur this soon after waking. He blinked a few times in succession to clear his vision, and at length, he felt Kirishima's gaze on him. "…Your head feel as bad as mine?"

It hadn't--until he brought Yokozawa's attention to it, and as if in response, a sharp pain lanced through his skull, causing him to flinch in response. "Maybe worse…"

Kirishima coughed, then cleared his throat, shaking his head. "My throat feels like someone took a wire brush to it...what the fuck did we drink?"

"You can't expect me to remember that on the heels of that bad a bender, can you?" was the grumbled response as Yokozawa attempted to bring himself upright without passing out from a blood rush. "…At least I assume there was a bender…"

"Was…there?" The sheets shifted as Kirishima worked to make himself decent--if they were in bed together, there was little hope they'd both managed to make it there fully clothed. "Shit--Hiyo's--"

"--asleep. At least I hope she is." He shouldn't _be here_ \--Hiyo liked to be the one to wake him in the mornings, and traipsing back to the guest room from Kirishima's (when he wasn't supposed to have spent the night in the first place) wearing nothing more than a sheet was sure to pique her curiosity. "It's just past 5, though; even she won't be up this early." He snorted softly to himself. "To think the day would come when _you'd_ be freaking out more about Hiyo than me…"

"Fuck you," was the huffed response, devoid of bite, and Kirishima ran a hand through his hair, shaking his fingers through his scraggly strands. "You must be rubbing off on me is all." Glancing about the room, he added, "…Though it looks like we managed to have a good time last night, even with her here."

"And you said you hated Valentine's Day."

"I--you can't tell me it hasn't been rough the past couple of weeks. The holiday itself is enough of a hassle without all the fanfare and hoops we have to jump through at the office--ah." His eyes went wide. "…Champagne."

"Huh?" Yokozawa could feel his mental faculties reasserting themselves, and he tossed a confused glance at his bedmate, being sure to keep the sheets pooled at his waist.

Kirishima cast about the room further, brows furrowed. "We--Isaka-san had some champagne sent to all the editors-in-chief, I guess for Valentine's Day." It was entirely possible, even if Yokozawa was blanking on the particulars just now; the guy was good at his job but more than a little eccentric. "We must've gone through the whole bottle…"

"And then some…" Yokozawa muttered, catching one half-finished bottle on the night stand and another rolling on its side at the other end of the room. "How is it whenever I drink with you I always wind up waking up next to you not remembering half of what I did the night before…"

Kirishima usually would've responded to this with some frustratingly smooth quip calling into question the extent of Yokozawa's feelings for him and some profession of new debts accrued, but this time he was disturbingly silent, still rubbing at his throat. "…We definitely had more than champagne…"

"Huh?"

He coughed for show. "My throat feels like shit, I told you. And my jaw's sore." Cocking his head to the side and bringing one hand around to massage his lower back, he added, "--and my hips…but that's nothing new."

Yokozawa let his gaze drop down to where the sheets sat in disarray about Kirishima's hips before quickly diverting his attention, swallowing thickly. "Not sure what you're trying to suggest."

"Suggest, nothing--seems pretty clear you fucked me--"

"Shh!" Yokozawa hissed, straining his ears for sounds of Hiyo rousing just in the next room, and he flushed deeply. "It's one thing to talk about that kind of thing when Hiyo's sound asleep, but she's bound to be waking up any minute." And with that, he realized this was hardly the time to be having a conversation in bed--so he began casting about for the undergarments he hoped were somewhere in the bedroom and not scattered about the living room. 

He could hear the frown in Kirishima's voice as he watched Yokozawa track down his clothing. "You're usually in a more chipper mood when you get to--" He cut himself off at Yokozawa's sharp glance. "Whatever." He attempted to clear his throat again. "I must be coming down with something--we still have some of that nasty herbal tea shit you tried to convince Hiyo to take when she had that cold back in January?"

"It's not my house," Yokozawa grumbled in response, mostly to himself, and quickly toed on the first familiar pair of underwear he found in an attempt to make himself decent. "You'd know better than I would if there's any--"

"Where'd you put it?" came Kirishima's voice from the bathroom, obviously ignoring his complaints, and Yokozawa huffed and glanced over, a response on his tongue, only to find himself talking to Kirishima's ass where he'd bent at the hip to dig around under his bathroom sink.

"For-- _fuck's sake_ put on some pants! If Hiyo came in…"

"The door's locked; stop worrying."

"Says the man who nearly had a heart attack five minutes ago…"

"Found it." He drew himself back upright and strolled into the bedroom again, mouthing the instructions on the back of the packet to himself while easily snatching up the pair of underwear tossed in his direction. "Thanks."

"Exhibitionist."

"Not like it's anything you haven't seen before."

"It's indecent."

"Only in certain contexts." He slipped back onto the bad, the mattress creaking beneath his weight, and glanced up at Yokozawa with the tea packet in one hand and his underwear in the other. "Plenty of time to explore those contexts in detail."

Ignoring the tingling heat that always flared in his belly any time Kirishima remotely suggested the notion of sleeping together--a frustrating truth Yokozawa could not deny--he snorted softly. "If you're really coming down with something, you're definitely in no condition to be suggesting _that_."

"Come on, if my throat's shot already I may as well--" But he stopped mid-innuendo, jaw hanging open and voice dying off in a slight whine. "…Oh."

"Huh?" Yokozawa had finally located his undershirt and was patting himself on the back for remembering to keep an extra suit in the guest room, even if doing so _had_ made Kirishima inordinately chipper. "I figure while I'm here I may as well put on some breakfast; you in the mood for anything in par…" But Kirishima was rubbing his jaw, still silent and white as a sheet. "…Oi, Kirishima-san?"

"Did I…"

"Eh?"

"Did I…" Kirishima repeated, voice a bit stronger, and he licked his lips. "…Last night, did we…"

Yokozawa flushed, ears growing warm, and he ground out, "We've already discussed this--we must've gone through that champagne and then turned in. What's the big deal?"

"My throat's sore."

"So drink your goddamn tea already. What the hell is--"

Oh. 

And now everything was washing over him, leaving a sheen of clarity to the haze-filled night-before--the oppressive stuffiness of Kirishima's bedroom, the uncomfortable loss of balance as he was pushed back onto the mattress, the soft brush of his fingers tangling in Kirishima's hair, the raspy gagging as Kirishima nearly hacked up a lung trying to deep--

He released an inelegant snort, immediately slapping a hand over his mouth, horrified at his response. "Oh god--oh _fuck_ you--you--" He had to actively bite his lip to keep from _giggling_ , this was absolutely beautiful. He steadied himself against the mattress, shoulders shaking. "Last night--last night you--"

"I obviously remember now, I don't need your fucking commentary," was the peevish response as Kirishima slipped back under the covers, letting the underwear fall back to the floor and leaving the tea on the bedside table. His back was straight and stiff under the sheets as he sulked. "Put some pants on and go make breakfast."

"Why the hell would I want to do that, Kirishima-san?" Yokozawa gasped, feeling tears prick at the corners of his eyes and his abdomen sting with trying to rein in the urge to laugh too loudly. "You've gone and seduced me, and now I find myself desperate to have you right this instant--" He leaned onto the bed, one knee hanging off, and half-straddled Kirishima over the sheets, voice growing low and rough. "I doubt we have time for a fuck, but I'd be willing to let you try and suck me off. If you think you can manage it this time."

" _Fuck you_ ," Kirishima snapped, throwing his arm wild to uproot Yokozawa from where he sat. "I was _drunk_ \--"

"We've been drunk before."

"And it's not like I've had much _occasion_ to practice that--"

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"It's supposed to make _me_ feel better. Asshole." He ran a hand through his hair, easing himself upright again. The slump to his shoulders told the clear tale of how reliving their encounter the previous night was taking a toll on his pride. "Shit, that was…" He glanced up, surprisingly capable of meeting Yokozawa's gaze when usually situations like this had him staring at the floor until the moment passed. "…It was bad, wasn't it?"

Yokozawa sighed softly, the overwhelming urge to release a good guffaw fading as his brasher emotions tended to do when Kirishima went all _frankly honest_ on him, and he reached forward and gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. "…No comment." This apparently hadn't been what Kirishima had been hoping for, as he scoffed and shrugged off Yokozawa's hand. " _What_? You want an honest opinion? I'd be happy to critique your deep-throating skills if it'd satisfy you."

"I can suck dick just fine, thank you."

"Sure, provided the dick's the length of your thumb. No wonder." He chuffed, fighting a smirk. "I thought you just had a thing for the tip--"

"I _told you_ just--I haven't been with enough men to…" But he trailed off with a groan, massaging his temples in an attempt to rid his mind of all memories of the previous 24 hours.

"You sure fuck like you know your way around a man."

"You do, too," Kirishima returned coolly, shooting him a glare, and Yokozawa buttoned up, not keen on running through this argument again. "It doesn't mean anything, unless you're ready to admit you're gay."

"I'm _not_ \--" he started, then cut himself off, knowing Kirishima was trying to change the subject. "Fine--we'll forget it happened." He waved a hand between them magnanimously. "It may be difficult, but I believe with time we can move past the image of you embarrassing the both of us with a pathetically failed attempt at deep fellatio." He shoved Kirishima back down by the shoulder, easing up off the bed and running a hand through his hair to test for bed-head. "Nice to know there are at least some areas where my skill exceeds your own."

"You've _never complained_ before--"

"You've never spectacularly embarrassed yourself before." He reached over to the bedside table and picked up the forgotten packet of tea. "It's something of a relief knowing you're human."

"You still got to fuck me; not like I blue-balled you or anything."

"Maybe I didn't want to fuck you; maybe I wanted to be sucked off."

Kirishima snorted, wiping a hand over his face. "Of course you wanted to fuck me."

"Cocky."

"Am I wrong?" Yokozawa shrugged. "What's that for?" He jerked his chin in the direction of the tea packet. "I'm obviously not sick."

"It's good for you; you should have some anyways."

"It tastes like crap."

"I could think of worse experiences to have to sit through." And with Kirishima offering a final colorful curse at his back, Yokozawa stepped into the hallway headed for the kitchen to start breakfast.


	22. Hold

“Kirishima-san...”

“Hm?”

“Ngh--” His voice was muffled by the pillow, and with great effort, Yokozawa turned his head to the side, entirely limp where he was sprawled on his stomach taking up a good three-quarters of the mattress they’d shared. “Your hand is distracting.”

“Is it?” The fingers on the hand in question danced lightly at the swell of Yokozawa’s ass, dipping just under the hem occasionally to brush over the firm flesh of his rump. “I’m sorry.” He didn’t really sound it in the least.

Yokozawa frowned half into the pillow, glaring at his bedmate out of the corner of his eye. “I was trying to sleep.”

“You don’t have to wake up on my account,” he crooned softly, reclining on his side with his head propped up in one hand as other roamed the bits of Yokozawa’s exposed flesh he could reach. He snapped the hem of the pants Yokozawa had pulled on hastily the previous night, snorting at the way the man flinched. “Hiyo’s not even here; don’t see why you went through the trouble...”

“You _really_ don’t seem to understand the concept of sleeping in and--” He batted the hand away lazily, grunting as he rolled over onto his back. “--civilized people sleep in bedclothes. Regardless of their situation.”

"Just a hindrance," Kirishima muttered, settling down onto his stomach with his head resting on his folded arms as he settled in. "What's the point when you're just gonna take 'em off again?"

Yokozawa pursed his lips in annoyance. "Who says they're coming off again?"

"Geez, are you _sure_ you're a human man?" Kirishima shifted up again, frowning. "You're lying here on a Saturday morning in bed with someone more than willing to give it up for you and still you complain?" He wrinkled his nose. "Don't you have _any_ libido?"

"Think I've demonstrated on _several_ occasions I do." He shifted up onto his elbows. "You just don't know the meaning of showing restraint--"

"And why--" he interrupted sharply, quickly slipping up and over until he had Yokozawa pinned beneath him, arms straight and sturdy on either side as he studied the man beneath him, "--should I have to practice restraint right now?"

"To make up for never showing any anywhere else, maybe?" The sheets pooled at Kirishima's waist were in disarray, tangled about one of Yokozawa's legs and not doing much to shield Kirishima from view. Yokozawa shifted his gaze to the side, focusing on some abstract painting Kirishima had hanging on the far wall. "Either way, I'm not doing it first thing in the morning."

Kirishima huffed his annoyance. "That's the _best_ time to do it though," he wheedled, dipping down and shifting his lower body until his crotch bumped along Yokozawa's clothed hip, brushing softly so that the guy couldn't miss what mere proximity was starting to rouse. "Hiyo won't be back from camping until tomorrow afternoon; surely housework can wait a few hours."

"A few hours?" Yokozawa snorted inelegantly. "Someone's confident."

"Fuck you." But the curse was delivered without much bite, its ferocity tamed by the smile that danced across Kirishima's features as he latched onto Yokozawa's developing acquiescence, dipping down to brush their lips together, chaste and soft for only a moment before Yokozawa let his chin drop to invite a deeper joining. Nothing was ever slow or subtle once they realized something was _happening_ , each eager to touch and stroke and rut against one another as quickly as possible with minimal fanfare to distract from enjoying each other in the raw.

It was tough--working as they did and trying to maintain some semblance of a relationship amidst the harrying milieu of manuscripts and sales quotas and parent-teacher conferences and reminders that _You haven't visited in ages, Takafumi; come down this weekend, Aunt Haruko's in town._ It helped nothing that they…never really _talked_. At least not about anything but work, Sorata, Hiyo, or some combination thereof.

Yokozawa had learned more about Masamune in three weeks of hanging out on platonic terms than he had in nearly a year of sleeping with Kirishima-san (sometimes quite literally), and this was in no uncertain terms _pathetic_. That wasn't how a relationship was supposed to work--chatting and fucking and arguing and occasionally helping his adorable kid with her math homework--but…at this point, what else were they supposed to do? How did you bring up something like that this late in the game? How did you do it without embarrassing the shit out of yourself in the doing?

"You sure--you don't wanna do it?" Kirishima muttered against his lips, breaths coming short and clipped against Yokozawa's flushed skin. He'd shifted his weight to free one hand to trail fingers along Yokozawa's shoulder and collarbone, flicking lightly over the nearest nipple in a playful tease.

"It's indecent in the middle of the day," was the grunted reply, but Yokozawa did nothing to deter the attentions, focusing more on simply keeping himself from being too responsive and encouraging Kirishima further.

"It's always the middle of the day somewhere…" And Yokozawa had to snort at this, which made Kirishima smile, lips curling up at the corners in that way Yokozawa found more endearing than it should be. "Then again, the condoms are all the way in the bathroom…"

"Pity, that." At Kirishima's huff of disappointment at his reaction, though, he snaked a hand down just between them, lightly scraping his fingers over Kirishima's abs before gripping snugly around the cock that had been half-hard and pressing into his thigh insistently for the past five minutes now. 

"Oh--" Kirishima started with a jolt, jerking back and arching his back upwards to peer down between, glancing back and forth between his crotch and Yokozawa's face as if in disbelief. "You said you didn't want to do it."

"Jerking you off's not 'doing it'. Now put your own fucking hand to use; this isn't charity work." He punctuated the demand with a rougher-than-necessary tug on Kirishima's cock coupled with a soft swipe across the tip before pressing down with a pleasant pressure around the shaft.

"F--uck, fine fine--" He fumbled with the tie at the hem for a brief moment before Yokozawa grew impatient and bucked his hips up at an angle, brushing his own erection against Kirishima's hand. "I can find your cock perfectly fine on my own, thank you."

"Could've fooled me," was the groused reply, but significantly softened in blow by the breathy tone his voice took when Kirishima gently cupped him through his pants. "You gonna--jerk me through my pants?"

"And ruin your outfit? Heaven forbid." This time he bypassed the tie altogether and slipped his hand under the elastic waistband, letting out a soft _ah_ of accomplishment when he palmed Yokozawa properly. "Much better."

"Have to agree." With that, Yokozawa renewed his efforts, letting his legs fall open in more obvious invitation as he escalated the rate of his strokes, filling the close air of the bedroom with little more than soft grunts and whines and the slick _schlocking_ sound of two cocks being feverishly jerked to completion. 

Yokozawa could tell Kirishima was close when the hand on his cock grew jerky and untrained, simply gripping and grabbing with little trajectory, and Yokozawa furrowed his brow in concentration, trying to hold off his own climax to bring Kirishima off--"Fuck you take forever to come."

Yokozawa grunted, focus lost, and glared up at Kirishima, who had his gaze fixed on Yokozawa's face, sweat beading across his forehead and eyes glazed over, dark and deep. "Maybe you just suck at handjobs," he returned with some effort, slowing his strokes to give Kirishima's cock more practiced attentions, hoping to draw out the pleasure even if Kirishima wasn't exactly holding up his end of the bargain. "Or maybe your morning breath's turning me off."

He smiled at this, bright white teeth flashing in the light filtering in through the thin curtains. "You always suck on the tongues of people with morning breath?"

"Just fucking come already," he ground out, growing impatient that Kirishima was distracting him from the task at hand.

"I wanna come together."

"You're such a fucking _girl_ \--" But Kirishima responded to this with renewed efforts, dipping a finger down to brush against his balls before dragging it back up the shaft and encircling the crown. "'S not--fair."

"What's not fair is--you lording it over me how you get me off first something like 90% of the time--"

"You-- _count_?"

"Fuck you and hurry up and come."

"Maybe you-- _ngh_ \--should just work on your stamina, Kirishima-san." He injected a soft, labored laugh. "Can't keep it up for as long as you used to be able, hm?"

"I'm perfectly virile; you're just perfectly fucking sexy." He brought his palm up, a brief respite, and gave it a perfunctory lick, laving from heel to fingertip before slipping it back down between them. "You'd come quick if you were doing someone like yourself, too."

"Such a way with words, this guy…" Yokozawa closed his eyes and focused on doing as Kirishima was pestering him, angling his hips to achieve the friction he wasn't quite finding in Kirishima's palm while at the same time easing his own attentions to the cock in his hand. The guy could be annoyingly sentimental about shit like this, but it took little effort to please him, so more often than not Yokozawa bent to comply. If it made him happy that they spilled at the same time, then it was an easy way to ensure that the day got off on the right foot, and maybe a satisfied Kirishima would be an easier one to deal with throughout the day.

When he felt the familiar, pleasant heat curling at the base of his spine, he huffed out softly, "Okay--okay pick up the pace now," eyes fluttering open, low-lidded and vision blurred as he blacked out the rest of the room and brought his world down to just himself, the mattress beneath him, Kirishima above him, and the two hard cocks between them, slick to bursting and warm and heavy in their hands.

With a few more practiced strokes and a flick of his wrist, they were both muttering hissed curses, gasping and pressing against one another as their orgasms crested--fine, if they must, at _roughly the same time_ \--washing over them and leaving behind a light foam of hazy lethargy, the only unpleasant aftermath the sticky, milky film coating their fingers and bellies that quickly chilled in the open air, silently urging them to clean up after themselves.

Kirishima slipped to his side before flopping onto his back, chest rising and falling with deep breaths as he stared up at the ceiling. "…Still think you should've let me do you."

"You have some complaints regarding my manual dexterity, Kirishima-san?"

"Fuck no," he practically laughed, smile evident in his voice, and he took a few more deep breaths before continuing. "Fuck no. Just--" And he fell silent--for so long that Yokozawa had to tilt his head to the side to catch a glimpse, ensuring the guy hadn't passed out in the wake of their morning activities.

A hand reached forward, broad and warm when it brushed a few strands of hair from Yokozawa's eye, tracing a line over his temple and down his jawline and neck before settling, flat, over his chest. He swallowed thickly, gaze flicking back and forth between the hand and Kirishima's gaze, watching him calmly. "…Just?"

"Just…sometimes I feel like I have to grab my chances while I can." He licked his lips. "Mornings like this are…" His brows furrowed when Yokozawa interrupted him with an annoyed sigh, adding, "Oi," when he rolled over to sit upright before slipping off the bed, tottering only for a moment on legs still jelly-like from their activities. "What the fuck--I was--"

"You were saying things that made you sound like a girl again," Yokozawa groused, padding around to Kirishima's side of the bed before extending a hand. "Shower."

"Huh?"

"Did I stutter? _Shower_. You smell--and now you've got semen caking your hands. It's disgusting."

Kirishima's frown deepened in offense. "You don't exactly smell like a rose yourself, you know."

When Kirishima didn't respond to the extended hand, Yokozawa reached forward and grabbed him by the wrist, practically tugging him onto his feet. "Yeah, that's the _general idea_."


	23. Goodbye

Yokozawa impressed Kirishima daily--whether it was by increasing sales figures yet _again_ (the third month in a row now) on back issues of an obscure title Kirishima had handled in his early days at Marukawa on the heels of a childish bet they'd entertained, or with how he had seamlessly woven himself into the fabric that made up the Kirishima household, stitching himself right in between Hiyo and Kirishima as if he'd been there from the beginning (and thereby becoming equally difficult to remove). 

He was an amazing person on so many levels--but right about now, Kirishima was standing here in awe, feeling a little sick under the bright fluorescent lights of the vet clinic, like he needed to sit down but he shouldn't, couldn't, because Yokozawa was crouched there on the floor, Hiyo's arms around him, stroking her back and whispering things into her hair while she sobbed into his shoulder so loudly they were drawing uncomfortable stares from the rest of the waiting room's occupants.

He supposed he should feel something right now. Something like--loss, or confusion. Pain, because wasn't that how you felt when someone close to you died, even if they _had_ been eleven years old and even if that _was_ a pretty respectable lifespan for a house cat? Weren't you supposed to react like Hiyo--just breaking down even though you know it won't do any good because there's too much emotion inside and it's gotta come out somehow?

He was pretty sure you were supposed to have stronger reactions to loved ones dying than sitting here, arms crossed, just staring down mutely, but maybe it'd been so long he was just out of practice. Maybe he'd fooled himself into believing all that _circle of life_ shit he could hear Yokozawa muttering against the top of Hiyo's head, voice muffled in her thick brown locks and doing nothing to soothe her grief, only serving to make her bawl even louder, to an almost comical degree.

It was one thing for Kirishima to be at such a loss, to have no clue how to react or urge to react _at all_ , but it was another for Yokozawa to be this strong rock, this bear of a man with wide arms and broad shoulders that welcomed little almost-daughters in for a comforting squeeze and a few soft-spoken words.

Kirishima's fingers twitched when he noticed Yokozawa's grip draw tighter across Hiyo's back, squeezing her closer and whispering something that he couldn't catch but which somehow managed to ease her sobs into soft, rasping hiccups as she nodded against him.

It wasn't fair; he had to be _dying_ inside, and yet Yokozawa was sitting here spending his every last effort to make Hiyo feel better, to ease her pain of loss and maybe push aside his own for another five minutes, another ten, just enough so that they could stumble out to the car, sit in silence--the air rent only with the occasional snotty sniffle from the back seat as Hiyo settled into the next stage of grief--the whole ride home, and carry her up and into bed when she inevitably slipped into unconsciousness in an effort to forget that this horrible day had ever happened.

Kirishima sat there on the couch in silence, lulled into a daze by the sounds of Yokozawa putting Hiyo to bed, the soft creaking of faux wood planks beneath his feet echoing through the empty apartment his only warning of Yokozawa's approach at his back.

He wiped his hands over his face before running fingers through his hair, shaking his head. "You shouldn't have had to--"

"Please shut up--" was Yokozawa's choked request even as Kirishima struggled to apologize for Hiyo's behavior, and he reached around, bent at the hip, and took Kirishima by the jaw with both hands, pulling him up bodily and none too gently to press their lips together, soft and desperate and with no pretense or _plan_. His jaw dropped open, and his breath was hot and dry, mouthing against Kirishima's skin in some blind attempt to elicit a reaction. His fingers slipped along Kirishima's jawline, down the curve of his neck and around to tangle in the hair that had grown longer in the winter months.

A tongue swiped along his half-parted lips, and he responded more out of instinct than any particular drive, muffling his surprise in another, more heated kiss now, giving back as good as he was getting and pushing aside his confusion at Yokozawa's forwardness with instead the familiar press of their tongues twining and a heat building in his chest as he wrapped his arms around Yokozawa's shoulders to deepen the kiss, kicking it into proper gear.

It was nice, letting himself detach from the surreality of the day in this chilly, empty living room with Yokozawa pressed up tight against him, every point of contact warm familiarity in the wake of so much raw newness. Yokozawa whined somewhere in the back of his throat, and a soft _hic_ interrupted the silence between them, a salty drop tracking down his cheek as another crested over to follow.

Kirishima broke rhythm for only a moment, staring at the man before him, tall but hunched at the shoulders, jaw rigid and eyes red-rimmed and glistening with a bright sheen as he shook his head and gripped tight at Kirishima's nape to press their lips together again. His efforts were short-lived though, as his knees shook beneath him and Kirishima held him tighter, closer, tilting his chin up to lap at the tears coming a bit more regularly now, leaving dark tracks against his skin.

He breathed in sharply when Kirishima left a kiss on the line of his cheekbone before pulling him into a tight hug, and that was about all he could take, fingers scrabbling against Kirishima's stiff, starched shirt and gripping tight, nearly pulling him down as he held on and broke down, all of the pent up emotion from losing the closest thing he'd had to family through the roughest part of his life--his own personal _Hiyo_ of sorts--pouring into Kirishima's shirt everything he'd let Hiyo pour into himself.

They stayed like that for several long minutes, until Yokozawa had either collected himself or worn himself out, and he tensed when he felt Yokozawa draw himself up straight again, no longer leaning into Kirishima so much as just holding onto him for a steady anchor; Kirishima could deal with that, too.

There was a sharp intake of breath, tensed shoulders steeling for _something_ , and Yokozawa cocked his head to the side and leaned in again, brushing his lips over Kirishima's in a soft, dry kiss that was gone again when he blinked. "Thank you." His voice was rough, still thick with emotion, and he punctuated this with another hug he'd likely deny indulging in come morning.

Like this was something Kirishima needed to be _thanked_ for. Like it hadn't done him as much good as it had Yokozawa, like he hadn't been, somewhere deep down, _scared shitless_ that maybe, maybe--with the cat gone, with that _cat_ , Sorata, who was too fat to fit in the little kitty house Hiyo had bought him last Christmas, who liked to curl up between Kirishima's thigh and the side of the sofa while he did his checks, who got underfoot before you were fully awake and nearly made you break your neck in the ensuing scramble not to faceplant--maybe if that _excuse_ to come here wasn't around anymore…

It was selfish. A fucking selfish thought at the _worst_ time, when Yokozawa had stood there being ten times the man Kirishima felt, comforting Hiyo with his touch and his words and his presence--when he had every right to be as much a mess as her. 

He was a _horrible_ person. And here Yokozawa was thanking him.

"How come…I always have to show my worst side to you…" came a gruff, muffled voice against his neck, and Kirishima stiffened, breath catching in his throat as he struggled to swallow around it.

Sighing softly, he allowed, "…Just shitty luck, I guess."


	24. Power

All things considered…this trip had been a pretty good idea.

The little heater overhead was humming along at full blast, yet still the chill in the room persisted.

Which was little surprise; no matter how nice the place they'd come, the thin walls facing the elements could only do so much to shield the occupants from the chill of mid-February in northern Kantou, and Kirishima had been insistent that they have a room with a view rather than one of the undoubtedly warmer rooms situated towards the center of the complex.

Still, there was little leeway to notice the nip in the air reminiscent of that just outside on the patio…when one was dining on such fine _kaiseki_ as Yokozawa was just now.

He topped off his miso soup with a loud slurp, biting back a small burp of satisfaction that threatened to leak out and instead reaching for the now-lukewarm cup of sake he'd poured for himself and Kirishima at the beginning of their meal. It had been divine, if he were to be honest--the closest he'd come to such fare had been the week he'd spent in Kyuushu two summers previous, and it hardly counted seeing as most of it had been spent doing _business_ , with little time to relax under a kotatsu with parties he had an admitted affinity for, enjoying the finest _yakimono_ and most delicate green tea in longer than he could remember.

He smiled to himself at the thought of Hiyori picking through the meal, overwhelmed at the spread and unsure of where to start, making faces at some of the more bitter elements and pressing her father to see if she _really_ had to finish the _kounomono_ or would Yokozawa-oniichan perhaps like some? Brushing down his robes and coughing softly to cover the smile, he made to stand and move his mostly empty try to the low table by the door to be picked up by housekeeping.

Yes, it would've been nice to have shared this with _both_ members of the Kirishima family he had a fondness for, but to say that he would've likely felt less relaxed on the whole with a ten-going-on-eleven-year-old to keep entertained would've been an understatement, and he sent a silent prayer of thanks to Kirishima's parents for taking Hiyori on with minimal questioning (which in and of itself was a bit worrisome, given the _timing_ of this getaway).

Kirishima watched him, eyes which had been dulled with the efforts of digestion now springing back to life as he stuffed the last of his _hassun_ into his mouth and strained to speak around the roll, "You done eating?"

Yokozawa froze in position, directing his gaze to where Kirishima sat beneath the kotatsu across from him, now mirroring Yokozawa's motions to tidy up his tray. "Yeah--I was just going to set this by the door for pick-up." He jerked his chin towards Kirishima's tray. "Want me to take yours, too?"

"Thanks," he mumbled, still trying not to splatter half-chewed fish and rice across the table as he scrambled to press the tray into Yokozawa's outstretched hand.

"Chew before you speak; that's disgusting," he chided gruffly, sighing at the display and taking the proffered tray with a roll of his eyes before shuffling over towards the genkan area of their room.

It'd been Kirishima's idea to come here in the first place. On the heels of much whining and rending of garments, going on and on about needing to relax and getting away from Tokyo--they'd actually managed to be of one mind on the notion that a weekend at an onsen wouldn't be the worst idea in the universe. Naturally, Kirishima had managed to go about the suggestion in the most non-subtle of manners, but Yokozawa had managed to rein in his immediate rejection of the notion with more logical centers of his brain, reminding himself that they weren't soon going to find a free weekend again until at least Golden Week, that the last two cycles had been really rough on Kirishima, in turn radiating stress on all connected to him, Yokozawa included, and a flurry of Spring releases was already turning into a headache for the sales department with organizing fairs and promotional events.

They both needed a _break_ , just 48 hours of not worrying about _anything_ \--work or family or anything other than how long they could stay in the open-air baths before they turned disgustingly pruny, which was something Yokozawa was comfortable with calculating and equally comfortable with not giving a shit about. The company was…well, he could live with it, he supposed.

Being sure to flip over the small tablet to ask for tray pick-up, he released a soft _yosh_ of contentment and started back towards the room proper--where he found Kirishima casting about for what turned out to be a small pile of fresh towels, pulling out one of the facecloths. "What're you doing?"

Kirishima waved the cloth like a white flag of surrender. "Bath."

"Ah." They'd only taken a quick dip in the public baths shortly after arriving--to 'get in the mood', Kirishima had explained--and Yokozawa was starting to feel the siren call of deep stone pools of warm water steeped in mineral salts and herbal concoctions, clearing the sinuses and renewing all the senses--

He started at a tug on his sleeve. "Hm?"

"You're coming too." And suddenly Kirishima wasn't heading for the entrance to their room to toe on the slippers the hotel provided, but was in fact dragging Yokozawa bodily towards their own private _en suite_ bath, the tatami flooring rustling beneath their feet as Kirishima tightened his grip.

Reflexively, Yokozawa batted his hand away, feeling the hairs at the back of his neck rise up. "What--the hell? Where are you--"

Kirishima pursed his lips, brows furrowing, and renewed his grip higher up on the lapel of Yokozawa's yukata, tugging insistently like a leash. "Told you; bath."

In an effort not to topple forward, Yokozawa scrambled to follow, bringing one hand up to grip tight at Kirishima's wrist in an effort to dislodge his hand from the collar of his yukata. "Fine--get your shit ready and we'll go to the baths--"

He could practically _hear_ the guy rolling his eyes. "Didn't say I wanted to _bathe_ , idiot."

Yokozawa frowned, placing pressure on Kirishima's wrist until his grip loosened, and he brushed away the hand with a scoff, leaving Kirishima to continue on into the bathroom proper, glancing away when he saw his hands go to the loosely tied belt at his waist. "We're at a fine onsen--one that _you_ wanted to come to in the first place--and you want to waste time doing…" He wrinkled his nose, feeling like a child. "The public baths are just as relaxing--"

"I _said_ I don't want to bathe." He rolled his shoulder to let the yukata drop to the floor with a soft _whump_ , keeping his back to Yokozawa as he bent forward to fiddle with filling the spacious tub their room came equipped with. "And there are more enjoyable ways of unwinding right here, I think, than in the _rotenburo_."

Yokozawa closed his eyes, lest he be tempted to look and lose his resolve. Swallowing, he remained resolute. "Fine; enjoy yourself. I'm going for a soak downstairs."

He'd turned on his heel, already mapping out in his mind what to bring with him to the pools on the ground level below them, when he heard the squeak of the tap being turned off and the slapping of water being sloshed around as Kirishima stepped into the tub. "You sure? I'll let you fuck me if you stay." So casual, like he didn’t damn well know how Yokozawa would react given that he had no Hiyo to hide behind now.

"…Tempting as that may be, it's hardly appropriate." And no part of that was a lie, despite Yokozawa's best efforts to splice in as much biting sarcasm as he could. He ran a hand through his hair. "We've only just gotten here; try to pace yourself, Kirishima-san."

"Who needs any 'pacing'?" the guy all but whined, and despite having his back turned, Yokozawa knew he was leaning over the edge of the tub, arms crossed and staring hungrily at Yokozawa's back as if hoping he might be able to _will_ Yokozawa into complying with his ridiculous suggestion. "Get in the fucking tub, Yokozawa. I'll scrub you down with some of this girly soap they've got in the dispensers."

"Oh _well_ then, when you put it like _that_ …" He threw a glare over his shoulder--sure enough finding Kirishima in just the position he expected, brows now raised hopefully and a triumphant smile playing on his lips. "…You're a shitty travel partner, you know."

"The feeling is most assuredly mutual. Now hurry up and strip before the water gets cold."

Yokozawa frowned, peering into the tub as he worked at untying the belt at his waist. "You haven't even filled it halfway. What the hell good is that?"

Kirishima shrugged. "Pretense mostly, I suppose." Yokozawa rolled his eyes. "We can fill it up afterwards if you really want to soak."

The belt dropped to the floor in a pile beside Kirishima's, and Yokozawa took his time in shrugging off the yukata itself, draping it neatly over a hanger near the door. "You're incorrigible, really."

"Sticks and stones, Yokozawa-san." He lifted up from the side of the tub when Yokozawa approached, eyes narrowing appreciably, and he reached a hand out to brush along a thigh, urging Yokozawa closer. "So what convinced you? My charming demeanor? Promises of girly soap scrubs?" He trailed his fingers back around to the front, purposefully bumping against Yokozawa's still-limp cock and sending a tremor through him in response. "Or perhaps my fervent invitations to engage in carnal acts?"

Yokozawa grunted and slapped the hand away, carefully stepping over the low wall and into the tub while Kirishima struggled to stand up properly, wet fingers skittering excitedly across Yokozawa's skin in the process. "More like your incessant whining. If that's your idea of seduction, you really do suck at it."

Kirishima snorted and stepped back to give Yokozawa the space he was demanding, running his fingers through his hair and wetting the strands sufficiently to tame them flat against his scalp. "You'll forgive me; I've been out of practice for some time." He gestured flippantly to the small bench at the far side of the tub. "It's narrow, but you can take the bench."

"Huh?"

"I told you--I'll wash your back." To demonstrate this, he reached for the washcloth he'd brought in with him earlier, dipping it in the shallow water reaching to their calves, and cast about for the soap dispenser.

Yokozawa gaped, confused. "But--you said…" Kirishima wasn't listening, and finally tired of being one-sidedly jerked around, he huffed softly to himself and strengthened his resolve. He was already here, may as well make the best of a crappy situation he'd managed to get himself drawn into.

It wasn't as if he hadn't _expected_ this to happen at some point this weekend--though he'd honestly hoped Kirishima would actually do what they'd come here to do and _relax_ so far from any form of responsibility. Yokozawa knew, better than most, the burden Kirishima wore on his shoulders at all times, the fate of a dozen manuscripts from as many authors hanging around his neck during the day and the incessant, nagging desire to shower Hiyori with love and attention enough for two parents at night. More often than not, Yokozawa almost felt _guilty_ for spending time with the guy--though of course it wasn't as if he didn't do his best to go about being a guest in the Kirishima home as delicately as possible.

Hell, that had been a large part of the reason he'd agreed to come here in the first place; if Kirishima insisted it be with _him_ , then so be it--but he both deserved and needed an evening or two with no distractions. Yokozawa included.

However, such altruistic thoughts were for purer souls than he--let Onodera worry himself sick over _inconveniencing_ people he might care about; Yokozawa could only be so giving for so long…before Kirishima's wheedling snapped him, setting him up in a situation to do something he would soon regret.

The water sloshed at his legs as he slogged forward, reaching around and prising the washcloth from Kirishima's hands. "Fuck you and your girly soap." With his free hand, he gripped Kirishima by the shoulder and pulled him around to face forward properly, dropping to cloth to the side of the tub, where it plopped onto the tile with a loud _splat_. "I believe I was promised fucking."

Kirishima's frown of confusion at Yokozawa's harsh treatment quickly morphed into a much more familiar soft smirk, and he looped his arms around Yokozawa's neck, tilting his head to the side and leaning back against the chilly wall for support. "A gentleman never goes back on his word."

"Gentleman my ass," was the snorted reply, incredulous at Kirishima's boasting as always, and he stepped closer to angle their hips so that they brushed gently, being careful not to crush anything in the process. Kirishima released a soft, whining grunt when their cocks slid together for a breath, and Yokozawa's own lips curled up in triumph. It was nice to know his efforts were appreciated on the most base of levels. "Still don't see how this is relaxing in the slightest."

He was returned an amused snort. "What's more relaxing than a post-orgasmic soak, I ask you?"

Flawless logic, as always. "I suppose we should get on that, then." He leaned forward to cover Kirishima's chest with his own, pressing him abruptly against the tile at the back of the shower, and slid their lips together to ratchet their activities into high gear; conversation was all well and good, but generally Yokozawa preferred any noise while fucking be solely that released involuntarily. Get in, get off, get out; conversation was for foreplay.

Perhaps because he'd been about to make some other inane comment, Kirishima's lips spread easily for Yokozawa, his tongue seeking Yokozawa's own with little prompting, and Yokozawa took his time deepening the kiss, letting his fingers roam south to tease at Kirishima's nipples for a moment, enjoying the way he leaned up into his touch, before trailing his fingers over the hardening cock between his legs.

"I didn't bring anything in," he confessed hotly against Kirishima's lips--with no suggestion, only open questioning, waiting for guidance. "Unless you've hidden something away without my knowing…"

"Not gonna buy a girl a-- _ngh_ \--drink first?" was the panted reply when Yokozawa gave a firm, prompting stroke to the cock in his hands, obviously in no mood to deal with Kirishima's quips just now. "Fuck--I'm a big boy, I don't need much."

"I didn't mean to…" he started, then frowned at the worry in his own voice, instead pressing another soft, languid kiss to Kirishima's lips as he pumped the cock in his hand, swiping across the crown to smear the gathering liquid on his fingers. "Your funeral."

"Don't worry," was the snorted reply. "I'll be sure to let you know if it's not amazing." He let his own hand slip down from where his fingers had been playing in the bits of hair at the base of Yokozawa's skull to wrap around Yokozawa's untended cock. "And pay it back in full if I'm not satisfied."

"Asshole," was the grumbled response, and he returned to his efforts with vigor, pressing himself long and lean against Kirishima and keeping one hand busy on the guy's cock while the other kept his jaw angled comfortably for kissing; it was times like this that the height difference between them was most annoying, and Yokozawa was mostly just glad he wasn't being called on it.

When Kirishima's cries grew strained, panting against his lips and fingers of his free hand fisting in Yokozawa's hair to press him closer, deepening their kisses, Yokozawa let his fingers slip down the now-rigid shaft he'd been slickly palming, brushing at the narrow strip of skin just behind his balls. Kirishima arched his back to slide down the wall a fraction, using the leeway to spread his legs a hair and give Yokozawa an easier angle--but Yokozawa had other ideas.

"Turn around."

"Wh--what?"

"I said _turn around_." He punctuated this by moving one hand back up to keep Kirishima's cock interested while using his other to grip him by the shoulder, urging him up off the wall to turn and face around.

This was very obviously not what Kirishima wanted, though, for he now protested with a frustrated whine. "What--the fuck, just fuck me front-on." At Yokozawa's frown, he all but _whined._ "I--want to kiss you when we--"

Yokozawa was quick to cut him off before he said something that was sure to ruin the mood. "We can fuck how _you_ want when you're doing the work. Now turn your ass around." He put more strength into the grip on Kirishima's shoulder, despite knowing full well that if the guy didn't want to do it, he wasn't going to be budged. As such, it was something of a relief when he pursed his lips and did as requested, pressing himself up against the tiled wall and bracing his arms at his side. "So demanding…" he muttered, and if Kirishima heard him, he didn't show it.

With fingers now slick with precum from two cocks, Yokozawa took his time prepping Kirishima, a heavy silence settling over the bathroom, the only sounds echoing off the walls the sloshing of water, heavy panting and soft grunts, interspersed with the slick, slimy squelching of Yokozawa's fingers--both those keeping Kirishima's cock interested and those slowly but surely opening him up.

Kirishima shuddered at one expert swipe across the crown, fingers scrabbling against the tile as he tried to press himself backwards into Yokozawa's grip, and he released a strangled, restrained whine, "Just--fuck, get on with it."

 _'We should've done this on a proper bed, dammit,'_ was Yokozawa's regret, too shameful to admit aloud but true nonetheless; there was little too terribly sexy about this whole setup, and in the back of his mind he was still fighting a twinge of worry that despite Kirishima's assurance just now, their joining would be less smooth than usual--in more ways than one.

Nevertheless, he withdrew his fingers as requested, positioning his cock and giving one final swipe to lubricate the passage as much as possible. He was straining already, though, and remained concerned he'd find himself too eager to just plunge in and get started with what he'd, in all honesty, been thinking about since they'd changed into the yukata earlier--giving in to baser drives with little consideration for Kirishima's own pleasure.

Fucking someone you cared about came laden with inherent drawbacks, Yokozawa was slowly coming to realize.

"I'm not gonna break," was the roughened reassurance as Kirishima angled his head to catch Yokozawa's gaze out of the corner of his eye. "So hurry up and stick it in before I change my mind."

Yokozawa tightened his frown--it helped little when Kirishima was putting up a strong front--but he nodded shortly and braced one hand along Kirishima's hip while he used the other to guide his cock in straight, slowly but surely pressing inside for a markedly less smooth entry than he was accustomed to. By the time Kirishima hissed in pain and bit his lip near to bleeding, it was really too late to pull out and suggest they actually do this properly--especially since he was shaking his head as if to put a stop to any ideas Yokozawa might have entertained to do as much.

Yokozawa grit his teeth and continued to slide through, unconsciously stroking the skin just over Kirishima's hip with his thumb, until he'd finally managed to seat himself fully, groaning in relief at the exquisite heat and pressure he knew he'd never get enough of. "Sometimes…you have really good ideas."

Kirishima managed a strained laugh, the sound echoing off the walls around them. "Nice to see you've come around to seeing things my way."

He took a breath and braced both hands against Kirishima's hips now, shifting his legs to carry the strain of standing in his position. "If I saw things your way too often, I'd never get any work done." And this time the laugh that followed was more genuine. "…You're okay?"

"Just dandy." Yokozawa allowed himself a measure of relief when Kirishima followed this comment by reaching under himself to palm his cock, giving it a few tugs just to be sure it still worked. "Any time His Highness would like to commence with the royal fucking..."

"I didn't ask for commentary," Yokozawa grumbled, and confident that if Kirishima was in substantial discomfort it was his own fault for not showing as much, he gave his palm a lick and withdrew just enough to relubricate with the best natural lubricant he had on hand just now, before slowly pressing back in, a measured burn as the shock of exposure to the open air was replaced again with the familiar tightness inside Kirishima.

He repeated the motion a second time, this time sliding in a bit faster, a bit smoother, and by his third pass, he'd latched on to a gentle rhythm, letting his mind and body slip into Kirishima, into the notion of fucking Kirishima, until all other stimuli were blocked out. He wasn't aware of the loud slap of flesh or Kirishima's grunting cries echoing off the walls around them, nor of the water sloshing about their legs and splashing their thighs and stomachs and chests with their thrashing about, nor the whiteness of Kirishima's knuckles as he made tight fists, bracing himself against the wall with one hand while the other worked at his cock feverishly. There was nothing more in Yokozawa's mind just now than the steady in-and-out of his cock and Kirishima's ass, knees bent to angle his entry just _so_ to achieve maximum fulfillment on the upthrust, enjoying the jolt when his hips and groin connected with the soft muscle of Kirishima's ass, faster on each return than the one before.

His lids fluttered as he felt himself being drawn back to the present, his consciousness returning in full and focusing solely on the now tangible buildup at the base of his cock, just behind his balls, a veritable fire lit under his ass telling him to step up the pace, to make the channel tighter, increase the speed and friction and thereby the pleasure, because only just a bit more--only just a bit more and he could--

"F--uck--" he started, an involuntary curse leaping from his lips as his hips shook, trembling and nearly causing his legs to give out beneath him as he executed a few final, shuddering thrusts, leaning over and against Kirishima's back like a dog, desperate to push deeper, just that much deeper--as his climax washed over, turning everything white and drowning out all sensory input in the wake of pleasure.

His muscles spasmed all at once before relaxing, and it took a few long moments of deep breaths before Yokozawa came completely back down to earth, still slumped against Kirishima's back, with Kirishima's heartbeat still thumping a loud tattoo in his ear. He closed his eyes tightly, then slowly allowed them to open again before belatedly realizing it wasn't the most considerate thing to do, sitting here draped over his partner without checking to make sure they achieved some measure of satisfaction as well.

He groped blindly with one hand, muscles still trembling with exertion, praying his fingers found purchase on Kirishima's cock one way or another--but he was rudely slapped away, with an irritated, "Fuck--get off me." When Yokozawa didn't immediately comply, still in a post-orgasmic daze compounded by confusion at the reaction, Kirishima twisted around and braced one hand against his chest, all but shoving him backwards until he slipped out of Kirishima with a soft, barely audible squelching _pop_. "I said _get off me_ ," he repeated, voice strained, and on unsteady legs, he managed to maneuver himself around until he could brace himself, back against the wall, for some support.

Heedless of Yokozawa's confusion, though, he only compounded the surreality of the situation when he snapped one hand out, fingers gripping tight at Yokozawa's wrist to tug him forward, guiding his palm down to Kirishima's cock and ensuring his fingers found purchase wrapped snugly around the shaft. With his free hand, he gripped the back of Yokozawa's neck and guided him forward until their lips met again, making motions to urge Yokozawa to finish the job he'd started earlier with slow, purposeful strokes.

He'd been rigidly hard--almost painfully so--when Yokozawa touched him, and once Kirishima's desires became evident, Yokozawa poured his efforts into getting the guy off as quickly and pleasurably as possible, deepening his kisses when Kirishima made overtures that such advances would not go unappreciated.

Given that they'd gone through these motions a dozen times over before and that Kirishima had already been teetering on the edge when he'd flipped them around, it took only a few practiced strokes before he was gasping his release into Yokozawa's mouth, coating both their hands in seminal fluid that pulsed warmly over them in milky spurts as the strokes slowed to a gentle tug before stopping altogether.

Yokozawa allowed their kisses, now far less frantic, to continue lazily for a few breaths before his irritation and confusion peaked. "…What the hell was that for?"

Kirishima's brows knit--though whether it was from annoyance at the question itself or annoyance at Yokozawa interrupting what had been admittedly pleasurable kissing to ask it was not clear. "Told you," he grunted matter-of-factly. "I like kissing you when I come."

"So--just for that you--"

"You're really ruining the mood here," he interrupted, irked, and looped his arms around Yokozawa's neck again, using the leverage to pull himself up and bring their chests together. Eyes closed, as if he were too drained to even keep them open, he proceeded to openly mouth a trail of kisses along Yokozawa's jaw, neck, collarbone, licking and tonguing what he could find without too much effort--and Yokozawa let him, for a few long moments, before the chill started to settle in, and he shivered, trying to shrug off Kirishima's advances.

"That--tickles, cut it out." At Kirishima's raised brow--he could see this coming back to bite him in the ass later--he added as a warning, "We're gonna freeze here if we just stand in this tepid water. We should--"

"Didn't I tell you to just shut up?" But he no longer looked irritated, only mildly amused, a long-suffering annoyance that tended more towards the affectionate than the stressed or confused. He threaded his fingers into Yokozawa's hair, angling his jaw to slide their lips together again. "We never get to do this--let me just get in all the crap I can't do at home this weekend, yeah?"

Yokozawa could've objected--could've brought his arms up to brace stiff against Kirishima's shoulders, to stop him from that kiss…except not doing so was a form of tacit agreement, and Yokozawa quite liked that style of ending an argument he didn't _really_ want to have in the first place.

So he let it happen, let Kirishima do what he did best and kiss the breath out of him, press upon him all manner of emotions dark and light, pure and not, until Yokozawa was responding regardless of whether he agreed with these emotions or not, simply intent on giving as good as he got and keeping things as even as possible between the two of them. They worked best on solid footing, with no _debt_ of any sort hanging between them. If Kirishima wanted to purposefully hold off his own orgasm because of some sappy hang-up, it was no skin off Yokozawa's back.

Their legs brushed, and Yokozawa caught the faint tremble of legs not yet up to supporting the weight of a grown man--and he tentatively brought his arms up to grip underneath Kirishima's arms, more sturdy support, bringing them even closer--and if the guy wanted to construe it as a hug, as the only thing Yokozawa could think of to help bring to the table some of that _crap we can't do at home_ , then so be it.

Kirishima chuckled in the back of his throat, cocking his head to the side to break the kiss and leaning forward until his breath fell hot and soft over Yokozawa's ear, "I love you so fucking much, sometimes."

Something shuddered in Yokozawa's chest, his heart seizing up, and his breath caught in his throat--all at once, which would've been bad enough had the casually dropped confession not also evoked an unmistakable response in other regions, and now Kirishima was outright _laughing_ , pushing Yokozawa away with hands at his shoulders to gape down between them in amused delight, "Holy shit--did you just get _hard_ because I said I loved you?"

That his cock twitched again at this, bobbing against Kirishima's leg like it had a mind of its own, helped nothing.

"F--fuck, stop that--" he scrambled to recover, pressing his knees together and trying to angle himself, because dammit--nudity when there was no real _reason_ for it was indecent, even if it was just Kirishima ( _especially_ if it was him, even), and this was just making matters worse. "Get out of the damn tub--you'll catch a cold and this whole weekend will have been a waste."

Kirishima leaned forward and grabbed onto his shoulders, following his retreating form out of the tub, and all but _gleefully_ continued his probing teasing. "If I'd known that was all it took to get you hard--"

"I said _shut up_ \--"

"--I mean, this could've saved me a lot of sore wrists now that I think about it."

"Fuck off--" Yokozawa turned on his heel, nearly sending Kirishima sprawling back into the tub in a heap of limbs. "--and die. A _thousand_ times over." Kirishima didn't seem ruffled in the least, though, simply keeping his distance and likely silently relishing this manifestation of the power he held over Yokozawa.

This trip had been a horrible idea.


	25. Command

"I said--" Kirishima leaned forward, one hand on his chest, to force Yokozawa back down, the bowl of soup in his other hand precariously balanced in his open palm and the contents nearly spilling into Yokozawa's lap. "-- _sit your ass in bed_." Yokozawa did as ordered, breath hitching in his throat in fear that he was about to find himself nursing not only a nasty cold but first-degree burns as well when the bowl finally toppled over onto him. Kirishima, though, mistook his compliance for a sign Yokozawa was remotely considering letting himself be babied in this manner. "You think I got to be editor-in-chief by being soft? Don't make me _put_ you in bed--you know I'm stronger than you."

Yokozawa would've opened his mouth at this point to deliver a harsh retort--the best kind, really--if he'd had much of a voice left to do so; but a rough week of refusing bed rest to take care of the cold that had been clinging to his coattails since the end of March had ultimately delivered a final 'fuck you' by sapping him of the only weapon he had left to use to fend off Kirishima's mothering advances, and so here he was now--laid up in bed like some fucking invalid with Kirishima pestering him for the fourth time in an hour to drink this soup that was so salty he could _smell_ it and down some concoction he claimed to have bought from the local pharmacy but had likely smuggled out of a back-alley black-market herbal remedy shop. It'd probably wind up fucking up Yokozawa's immune system more than the virus was already--so he was doing his best to stave off having to give in to the drink as long as possible.

Instead, he let Kirishima spoon some of the soup into his mouth reluctantly, offering commentary on the spice level by twisting his expression into one of disgust; the guy was a self-professed hack in the kitchen, so why did he think he had any place here trying to be Yokozawa's nursemaid?

"Don't give me that look; I made it just like Hiyo said."

"Did she tell you to dump the whole salt shaker in? Because I doubt it." His voice was raspy and soft, but he managed to get his point across.

Kirishima frowned, giving the bowl a tentative sniff. "It's not…" he began, before thinking better of himself, and changed tacks. "Sodium's good for a cold." Yokozawa snorted derisively. "I _tried_ , give me a fucking break." He stirred the soup again, contemplating forcing another bite into Yokozawa who looked on warily, before setting the bowl aside on the table beside the bed. "You're drinking the tea before I leave, though."

"It tastes like--" Yokozawa started to protest, before a coughing fit took over, and in a flash Kirishima was leaned over him worriedly, rubbing his back and invading his personal space with more heat than Yokozawa could stomach at the moment. He didn't want to offend the guy, could understand his worry--not that it was serious, but the guy was a father at home and a superior at work; it was his _job_ to worry about those around him--but the alternating hot flashes and chills that came with a cold needed to be navigated with care, not trounced upon by Kirishima mucking about. He braced an arm between them and pressed Kirishima away, quieting his protests with a sharp glance. "I'll drink the tea--but not with you hovering over me like my own mother."

"If your mother were doing any hovering of her own, I wouldn't need to."

"I'm almost 30 years old; my mother hasn't hovered since I moved out of my parents' house."

"Then you're long overdue." Kirishima cast a glance over his shoulder to the doorway leading into Yokozawa's living room. "…Do you need anything? I saw you left your briefcase on your table--not that I think you should be working, but I'd rather get it for you now than have you lumbering about later in your condition."

"You make it sound like I'm _pregnant_ or something."

Kirishima flashed a grin. "I do have _some_ experience with pregnant women, you may recall." Yokozawa responded with a rude gesture. "Oh, now that's not nice. I've come all the way over here to bring you dinner and medicine that I _promise_ will make you feel better even if it does taste like shit--and this is the thanks I get?"

Yokozawa rolled his eyes and settled down further on the bed, hoping making overtures that he'd like to rest now would send Kirishima on his way. "You'd rather I dropped into _dogeza_ and tipped my head to the floor in gratitude?"

"Mmm…" Kirishima almost seemed to consider this. "We can save that for after you've recovered." Yokozawa scoffed, resting his head on the pillow as he worked to get comfortable, placing his back to Kirishima. "For now…"

There was a beat of silence, and Yokozawa tried to feign sleep, closing his eyes and slowing his breathing into deep inhalations and exhalations. Kirishima didn't seem to get the hint, though, for there was no tell-tale scraping of wooden chair legs across his floor, no soft shuffling of socked feet out the door, and after a few minutes' unbearable waiting, Yokozawa shifted onto his back to verbally kick the intruder out--when he was instead met with a pair of lips brushing softly just at the corner of his mouth.

He reacted immediately, bracing a hand between them to both push Kirishima away and shove himself back further into the mattress. "What the--fuck, I'm _sick_ you idiot!" What would have typically been barked came out now as only a soft, raspy whine, thoroughly diminishing the bite to Yokozawa's chagrin. "Don't think this is some quick and easy way to get _me_ to play nursemaid for _you_ instead."

Kirishima snorted, shaking his head, and rose as he cast about for the light jacket he'd slipped off earlier. "Nah; you'll do that of your own volition. No threatening necessary."

"The _hell_ I will--"

"I left the tea bags by your hotpot. _Drink it_." He stared down at Yokozawa knowingly, refusing to let him avert his gaze until he granted a begrudging nod. Yokozawa had the unsettling feeling this was much the same way in which Kirishima got Hiyori to do things she didn't want to. "I'll drop by on the way to work in the morning--"

"Don't you fucking _dare_ \--" Yokozawa warned, raising a finger. "Don't think I don't know what time of the month it is for you people. Take care of your own work before you stick your nose in my business." The last thing he needed hanging over him was the guilt of knowing he was responsible for Kirishima working himself sick or worse--missing a deadline. It was a _cold_ , not pneumonia or something, and he could survive the few days it would take to completely recover without Kirishima poking his head in three times a day.

Kirishima frowned, pursing his lips. "…Then keep your phone by the bed and I'll text you to check in." A trace of worry worked its way into his expression. "You'd better not hold out on me either if you need anything. Get pissed at me all you like, but it's for your own good as much as for my personal peace of mind."

Yokozawa snorted softly, rolling back over and punching his pillow to fluff it up. "A regular saint you are."

Kirishima caught his eye as he rounded the bed, glancing back over his shoulder. Framed as he was in the light streaming in from the living room, it was difficult to make out his features. "…I'm nothing of the sort. I'm selfish through and through."

Yokozawa squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the door to close, letting himself be lulled to sleep by the sounds of Kirishima puttering about his apartment for a few more minutes before letting himself out, locking the door behind him using the key he'd pilfered from Yokozawa months back.

Kirishima, _selfish_? The idea was ludicrous--maybe he was already starting to come down with whatever Yokozawa had, a fever ravaging his brain. He smiled to himself and snorted at the notion.

Or maybe there was actually something to that bit about married couples eventually taking on each other's personalities.


	26. Precious

It's just as Yokozawa's drifting off to sleep, his breathing finally back down to something resembling normal and not the deep, choked inhalations he'd been struggling with only moments before, when Kirishima hits him with it like a ton of bricks.

"Move in with us, Yokozawa."

It's not the first time he's brought it up--nor is it the second, nor the third. In fact, Yokozawa would likely not be exaggerating if he claimed the topic had been broached at least once a week, with varying levels of gravity. And yet, just now, when throughout the apartment there is nothing but silence (Hiyo's on an overnight field trip with her classmates, Sorata's spending the week with Masamune) and stillness and chill save for everything cocooned here in Kirishima's admittedly quite comfortable bed…there's something different about the request.

Mostly that it's not a request. _We wouldn't have this issue if you'd just move in_ , he's heard often enough; _When're we gonna be able to convince you to move in with us?_ , similarly so. Always needling, never overly serious, just with the intent to keep the thought always in the back of Yokozawa's mind, crashing against him like a wave against granite cliffs hoping to wear him away little by little until Yokozawa has no choice but to give in, break his contract (he doesn't dare hope for the grace of being allowed to wait until his contract comes up again), and start tracking down cardboard boxes.

But here in the dark closeness of Kirishima's room, in the confines of Kirishima's bed with a thin sheen of sweat cooling over his skin and the warmth of a living breathing body close at his back and settling in closer, something has shifted between them and suddenly it's not a playful request anymore--it's real and serious and desperate.

He swallows hard, waiting for his strength to return to his limbs so that he can twist around and lash out vocally, sharp orders to _cut it out_ and _I'm not one of your fucking subordinates_ perched on his tongue, held back only by the lump in his throat that won't be moved. But before he can pour tension into his shoulders, before he can clench his fist and take a breath to muster that booming grouse he unleashes on Henmi when he's made yet another rookie mistake despite having been working with Yokozawa for nearly three years now, Kirishima's broad chest is pressed against his back, all but searing where their flesh touches, and Yokozawa shivers.

"Just shut the fuck up for five minutes, and think about it."

Yokozawa hates how all the guy has to do is use that _voice_ , the tone that will brook no argument because _I'm your father that's why_ or _I'm the editor-in-chief and you're not_ and Yokozawa straightens up, perks to attention and bites his tongue, keeping his thoughts (no matter how colorful) to himself.

Kirishima brings his hand up to rest at Yokozawa's elbow, fingers drumming silently along his forearm, and he presses his forehead to the nape of Yokozawa's neck as he takes in a deep breath, barrel chest expanding and branding Yokozawa further.

And purely because there is nothing else _to_ do just now when Kirishima all but has him in a sleeper hold and is lying half on top of him, Yokozawa does as requested and _thinks about it_.

He thinks about moving in--mostly, about how they'd even break it to Hiyori. 

Maybe 'break it' isn't the most appropriate term--all things considered, he can't imagine Kirishima's daughter _really_ objecting to his becoming a permanent fixture in their household, given her reactions when he shows up as is (and the pestering text messages on the evenings when he can't spare it). But then, she's ten-going-on-eleven, still in elementary school, and what does she know about having her life turned upside down? How will it be when, three months down the road, the shine of having her 'Oniichan' around as often as her Papa has worn off and suddenly he's just this _man_ , this strange friend of her father's who's living with them for no real reason, who's nice enough but working himself into their household like he's a part of their family when really, he's never going to be?

Or supposing that even Hiyori manages to remain as utterly infatuated with Yokozawa after he moves in as she is now--what about Kirishima's _parents_? He can't imagine, no matter how civil they may seem, that they'll react so positively to Kirishima inviting a virtual stranger to live with not just their son--but their granddaughter. What do they know of Yokozawa anyways? That he can cook a mean hotpot, that his custards are passable, and that he spends far more time at the Kirishima home than is entirely appropriate--that about sums it up, as far as Yokozawa is concerned. They'll object to it one way or another--and if they don't, Yokozawa isn't so sure he's comfortable with the job they're doing.

But even if they manage to somehow clear those hurdles--if Yokozawa still finds himself setting up shop inside the guest room, hanging his ties on a hooked bar inside the closet door, freshly ironed dress shirts on the railing inside--then what? Are they supposed to just slip into some mockery of a proper home and hearth, spending their days in much the same manner as they had those few weeks when Yokozawa had let himself be talked into boarding with the Kirishima's while Sorata recovered from his incident? For how long could such idyllic bliss possibly be expected to last? 

How long until someone at work overheard Kirishima urging him to _go on ahead home without me_ or _god_ \--what if Hiyo had a friend over and it got back to their parents that _Hiyori-chan's got a weird guy living in her apartment with her and her dad_?

Kirishima was a fucking idiot if he thought _thinking about it_ was in any way conducive to getting Yokozawa to actually uproot and move in. This was only making things _infinitely_ worse--it was kind of hard thinking about all the _advantages_ there were to making himself a permanent fixture in this apartment when looming over him were a dozen reasons it would be the worst decision he ever made, not just for himself but for the people whose lives he would throw into utter disarray. No, _fuck no_ \--no way was he ever doing that, he cared too damn much for--

He flinches when he feels _teeth_ nip at the nape of his neck--not painfully, but sure as hell not pleasurably. He bats at the assault with his free hand. "What the-- _hell_ \--"

"I told you to _think about it_ , not talk yourself out of it. _Fuck_. Have you always been this much a downer?"

Yokozawa twists around, strength having finally returned to his limbs, and he hopes his expression is enough to strike fear in his bedmate, because he's not sure he can compose himself enough to deliver as thorough a tongue-lashing as he'd like. 

Kirishima stops him before he can wind up, though, lifting up with just his arms and bracing one across Yokozawa's torso, effectively pinning him down. It's not so much the lack of room to move that pisses Yokozawa off as the gesture in and of itself--Kirishima likes placing himself in positions of power at times like this, that editor-in-chief position having obviously gone to his head. It's enough to make Yokozawa seriously consider gunning for a promotion himself just to wipe the smug smile off the asshole's face.

"I know how you think, you idiot; you let yourself get bogged down by all these half-assed _what if_ s and don't stop for a moment and think about the _what might be_ s."

Yokozawa presses himself down into the mattress, trying to give himself some breathing room, and he grits his teeth. "When the risks outweigh the benefits…" he starts, then grudgingly cuts himself off; his logic is sound, but it's not exactly prudent to start this argument by saying Kirishima and Hiyori aren't _worth_ it, even if he has to admit to himself that's lofty bullshit thinking.

Kirishima narrows his gaze, not frowning but lips pursed. "It's been over a year," he reminds. "Hiyo misses you--and that cat--when you're not around." Yokozawa is grateful a thousand times over that he doesn't have to physically hear the unspoken _I miss you too_ ; some things are much better left unsaid. "You already spend half your time here as it is--"

"Then why the fuck are we having this conversation again? Be satisfied with what you've got--"

" _Tell_ me what I've got then." He can feel Kirishima's skin flushing, body heat rising with the threat of a good argument so close at hand. "Cause all I see is you slinking out of here at nearly midnight--if you come over at all--back to your apartment for reasons I can't fathom, leaving behind just enough to remind us you _were_ here but that you _aren't_ now." His face twists. "Which is bullshit."

Yokozawa lifts a finger and shakes it in Kirishima's face, pleased to see him pull back. "No--bullshit is you harassing me about this once a week for the past fourteen months now--yeah, _I count too_ \--when the answer hasn't changed and isn't _going_ to any time soon. You really _must_ be getting old, Kirishima-san, if you're too damn blind to see everything that could go wrong or tend awkward if I--"

"And you're too narrow-minded to look at the big picture. For fuck's sake--" He scoffs and settles back onto his calves in seiza, "--you think I keep bringing it up _every week_ for my health? Because I just can't find something else to bitch with you about?"

Yokozawa snorts softly, glancing off to the side. "Sometimes I wonder."

He can hear the irritation in Kirishima's voice. "You're not an easy guy to be in love with, you know."

"You want a fucking medal or something?"

"No--I want--" He leans forward again, bringing their faces so close Yokozawa wonders if he's just going to try and win this argument the same way he does most any when privacy allows (and sometimes when it doesn't quite allow): by kissing Yokozawa into submission. "I'm not--asking you to _marry me_ or anything--"

"You already tried that, after all."

"Fuck you," is the groused reply, but the edge has worn off, leaving behind only a fondness born of fatigue. Kirishima is tired--which means he actually _cares_ about winning this argument, and isn't just in it for the sheer joy of trying to rile Yokozawa up. "Just--when you're here…it's nice." Yokozawa rolls his eyes, but allows a quick glance up to test Kirishima's features. "It's-- _good_ when you're here."

"So eloquent, this guy…" And before he can stop himself, he reaches up and brushes a lock of sandy hair behind one ear, being sure to school his features as he does so; gaping in horror at oneself never helps cement one's position in a debate. 

Kirishima, thankfully, barely seems to register it--catching Yokozawa's hand before he can jerk it away and pressing the palm to his cheek insistently. It almost burns. "You being here reminds me…"

"Of--what?" He regrets asking before the words have even left his lips.

"What it felt like to have a home."

Yokozawa sneers, because he can't chance any other expression melting into one revealing the anxiety flooding his system right now. "I'm sure Hiyo would appreciate hearing that her efforts to that end have been worth jack shit."

"Don't be an asshole," Kirishima warns, brows knitting as he lets the hand drop away, and Yokozawa jerks it back as soon as the fingers loosen at his wrist. "You know what I mean."

"It's a chronic condition; yet another reason I shouldn't move in."

Kirishima ignores him, pressing on. "I just--I like being able to glance in the kitchen and see you and Hiyo cooking, or hear you in the bathroom putting on a load of laundry--"

"I'm not gonna be your fucking _maid_ \--"

"And I _love_ Hiyo--but not like I love you." His fingers have found their way up to play with the hair at Yokozawa's nape, and he punctuates the confession by pulling away, letting his fingers, his palms, drag down the long line of Yokozawa's neck and over his chest, threatening to bring up goosebumps in their wake. "I just thought you should know that."

There's a beat of silence. "…So it's a selfish _move in with us_ , then."

Kirishima doesn't falter: "Very much so." He has to give the guy credit for honesty--and tenacity. But he's always been like that, so Yokozawa isn't so much surprised by the response. "I think about that kind of thing, you know."

"Hm?"

"About…you moving in. What it would mean, I mean. What would…change. What might happen."

Yokozawa snorts incredulously. "Who was the one telling me to _stop_ thinking about that--?"

"I think about it enough for the both of us," Kirishima returns shortly, voice clipped and serious. "No need for us both to lose sleep over it."

"Who the hell _loses sleep_ over--"

"The point is--" Kirishima cuts him off, and Yokozawa huffs, annoyed, but falls silent, "--I know my family a hell of a lot better than you. And just because I don't think it's that big a deal to try and kiss you on the couch doesn't mean I don't fucking _think things through_ when I suggest things like this."

And Yokozawa is actually surprised…at how this _doesn't_ surprise him. The guy's a good few years older than him with ten times the life experience to show for it; he's been a father for a decade, an editor-in-chief for nearly as long, and he's _gentle_ and _patient_ and _reliable_ , even around those he's got no reason to be. He'd sooner bite off his own tongue than admit as much, but: Kirishima's a _good guy_ , a grown man with a level head on his shoulders who does crazy things like drag his coworkers home unannounced to meet his kid and then invite them to live with him…but he doesn't fly by the seat of his pants. He's calculating, conniving at times even, but if there's one this he does frustratingly well, it's _think things through_.

Considering all the ways their relationship could go wrong was harrowing enough for a five-minute window; given the time Kirishima's probably dedicated to the task, he can only imagine the toll it's taken.

"…We wouldn't have to tell Hiyo about--this. And nothing has to change at work either." Yokozawa blinks a few times to bring Kirishima's face back into focus, realizing he must have been lost in thought. "Just…I really want this. I wanted you to _know_ I wanted it." He sighs, like he's just delivered his closing remarks.

It isn't fair, Yokozawa reflects. He's not ready for this--not ready to have this serious discussion. This is the type of thing that should be discussed when he has pants on, for one, but more when he's mentally prepared for this emotional onslaught Kirishima seems to like laying on him. It's easy enough to avoid his annoying insinuations about living together when it's coated in a thick layer of sarcasm and needling whining, but raw and open like this right now…Yokozawa's _dangerously_ close to seriously considering it. And he can't deal with that right now; he's too vulnerable here, too easily wooed by the prospect of not having to be gone by the time Hiyo gets back tomorrow afternoon, of being able to sleep in tomorrow morning--and maybe not wake up in _their_ bed _per se_ , but to at least have one less excuse for not being comfortable lying here with Kirishima pressing against him insistently and trying to decide whether he's going to let the guy fuck him before or after breakfast (after, his stomach will insist).

So instead, he schools his features and braces his arm between them, pushing Kirishima away and off, urging him to lie back down so that he doesn't have to bear that _position_ , Kirishima subconsciously asserting his authority and putting Yokozawa on the defensive (if he only knew how many more arguments he might win if he wouldn't be such a pompous _ass_ about it). He wipes a hand over his face and exhales loudly. "In all this _thinking_ you did…did you ever once think about _me_?"

Kirishima shifts up onto his elbows, a compromise as far as he's concerned. "…Eh?"

Yokozawa stares up at the ceiling. "When you were wracking your brain thinking about all the things that _you_ and the people in _your_ family would have to come to grips with if-- _if_ \--I were to move in, did you think to give a shit about whether or not I even _wanted_ to? Whether or not I wanted to uproot and turn my own life upside down?" Kirishima's always been frank in his expressions, and his response is clearly etched on his features. Yokozawa snorts derisively. "Of course not."

"Don't--fucking say that like I'm some inconsiderate asshole," Kirishima rounds on him, eyes flashing. "If I didn't think about it, it's not because I didn't _care_ , it's because I already assumed!"

"What--from the _many_ frank discussions we've had on this topic already--?"

"Yes!" he snaps, then reins himself in, repeating, " _Yes_. You're never shy about making your thoughts known--and with you it's always been bitching about how Hiyo will take it, how my _parents_ will take it, how fucking _Takano_ will take it even. I took it to mean you were either all right with the idea yourself, or your own feelings mattered so little they may as well not have been an issue at all. Which if it's the latter, then I really don't understand why we're even _arguing_ about--"

He cuts himself off, and Yokozawa's pretty sure it's because Yokozawa's got an expression on his features he rarely wears: one of utter shock. 

They're _arguing_. Not bickering, not bitching or griping--they're honestly _arguing_ about something they both feel passionately about, and it's not about work, it's not even about Hiyo, it's about _them_ , about the life they want to have together. Something that fucking _matters_ , a whole hell of a lot in fact--so much that it scares Yokozawa a bit to realize it, turns his stomach to understand that something they decide right here and now could have repercussions on everything that happens from here on out. He could fuck this up _royally_ \--maybe already has.

"Oi." He flinches when a hand brushes his cheek, glancing over to see Kirishima press his hand along his jaw, tilting his gaze up. "What's your problem?"

He bats away the hand, slowing his breathing, and takes a few deep breaths to make the room stop spinning. "Nothing."

"Bullshit." Sharp as ever.

Yokozawa grits his teeth, grateful for the respite of Kirishima's probing mothering to draw him back into the comfortable realm of their usual snapping retorts. "…This is important to you."

"No shit." He can tell Kirishima's trying to be casual, obvious in the forced amusement in his tone, but there's still that underlying current of worry.

He lifts up on his elbows, wanting for once to be on equal footing. "Don't get smart with me--" he starts, annoyed, then purses his lips. "…It's not about just moving in." Kirishima is silent, but he can see the last dying flicker of debate dying in his eyes as he understands he's lost. It hurts a little, seeing him give up. Kirishima isn't the only one of them attracted to pride. "…It's about _giving in_ , and I just…" Kirishima flops back down on his back, sighing loudly. " _Kirishima-san_ \--"

"No--I get it." And his voice is strong, clear. Calm. "I--didn't ask you because I expected you to say yes, after all."

"…Then why?"

He feels more than sees the shrug in the low light. "I think--I was worried you didn't think I was serious."

Yokozawa snorts. "…An understandable concern."

"Asshole." Yokozawa is relieved to hear the amusement back in his voice now. "…Will you at least stay until Hiyo gets back tomorrow?"

It's when he asks for things--rather than assuming them or demanding them--that Yokozawa feels weakest around the guy, and he shifts onto his side, one hand under the pillow and the other between them as he brushes his fingers over Kirishima's forearm. "She'll be pissed if I leave before then." Kirishima chuckles roughly before mirroring Yokozawa and scooting in close, only leaving off sharing a pillow because he learned the hard way that this was one bed linen Yokozawa liked to keep for himself. "…Hey."

"Hmm?" His voice is heavy with fatigue, and Yokozawa smiles at the great editor-in-chief of _Japun_ brought so low by a simple tiff.

"…November."

"Hn?"

"Six months from now."

He can hear annoyance seeping into Kirishima's voice. "What the hell are you--"

"I have to renew my lease in six months," he clarifies, struggling to keep his voice even, and he clenches his eyes shut tight so he doesn't have to see Kirishima's response. "…Ask me again then."

And even though he knows that _ask me again then_ doesn't mean _and only then_ \--even though he fully expects to have to parry another wheedling bout of _so when should we tidy up the guest room?_ every week until winter…

Next time they argue, he'll have a better response.


	27. Child

"Papa?"

"Hm?"

Yokozawa kept one ear tuned to the conversation going on over the dinner table as Hiyo worked to finish her homework before being rushed off for a quick bath and then bed--she'd stayed up far too late the night before, snuggled on the couch with her father watching a documentary on dolphins for a science project, and it had made her a right terror that morning. Kirishima had been frustratingly amused at Yokozawa's failed attempts to rustle Hiyori from her bed--enough to put Yokozawa in a sour mood for the rest of the day--and he had no intention of repeating the experience. Almost-teenagers were a terror, he was beginning to understand, and the worst years were still ahead. 

Coughing softly, he attempted to distract himself with the stack of printouts in his hand, going over a pages-long list of sales figures from one of _Japun_ 's authors to judge the feasibility of a proposal Kirishima had slipped him off-the-record. 

"How come you and Oniichan never kiss?"

Yokozawa's breath froze in his lungs, his chest tightening painfully, and he kept his movements subtle and strained to appear unaffected.

Because, well, _why_ was it so strange a question? Why shouldn't Hiyori, nearly 12 years old now and one of the three members of this household, well aware of her father's and Yokozawa's relationship since he'd moved in early the previous year…why shouldn't she wonder such simple things? Despite the fact that the very idea of Kirishima's daughter showing an interest in their relationship struck fear (founded mainly in shame) into his heart?

"Hah?" Kirishima was less than tactful with his response. "Are you trying to distract me from the fact that you're still working on the same problem you were ten minutes ago, young lady? It's past 9 already, you know."

"I'm _not_ ," she huffed, slumping back into her seat, and Yokozawa spared her a quick glance before refocusing on his own work--this didn't concern him; let Kirishima handle his equally stubborn daughter. "It's just a question." She lifted a brow pointedly, and Yokozawa shuddered inwardly at how like her father she was growing up to be. One Kirishima was hard enough to deal with; a teenage girl endowed with her father's powers of persuasion was dangerous indeed.

Kirishima mirrored her annoyed slump, crossing his arms over his chest. "What makes you think we never kiss?"

"Well--you never do it in front of _me_ ," she countered, legs swinging wildly underneath the table.

"And--what? You _really_ wanna see your papa and Oniichan make out--"

" _Kirishima-san_." " _Eew, Papa!_ "

Kirishima flinched at the simultaneous assault, holding his arms up defensively, "Fuck--geez, it was a _joke_." The look he threw Yokozawa, though, was more amused than apologetic, which did nothing to quell Yokozawa's irritation. With one hand massaging his temple, he worked to focus on the task Kirishima himself had assigned him.

"I didn't say _that_. But--" She leaned onto the table, supporting her chin in one hand and doodling a flower in the corner of her notebook. "--Grandma and Grandpa kiss sometimes. And I figured if you really loved someone, then sometimes you'd kiss them like that. But you never kiss Oniichan--"

"You'll do well to remember he never kisses me, either," Kirishima reminded, calmly sipping the now-lukewarm tea he'd poured for himself after dinner, and Yokozawa threw him a furious glare.

" _So_ , it just seemed weird to me is all." She paused her doodling, glancing back and forth between Yokozawa and Kirishima warily. "Then…does that mean you _do_?"

"Do what?"

"…You know. Kiss and stuff."

Much more of this, and Yokozawa's mortification at being given an indirect dressing down by an eleven-year-old was going to have him burning a hole right through the chair. Kirishima, on the contrary, seemed cool as a cucumber, leaning forward on the table. "…Of course." And his tone bore none of the usual snappiness he tended to deliver such quips with, only a warm rumbling of promise beneath his words--and it seemed to have the desired effect, for Hiyo released a soft breath.

"Ah--" She snapped her mouth shut, nodding nervously, and smiling to herself as she tried to return to her work. "Good, then." Kirishima eyed her warily, casting a worried glance to Yokozawa, who simply shrugged his own confusion and heaved a mental sigh of relief at the case being closed.

* * *

"Whadya think brought that on?" Kirishima's toes wiggled where he had his feet stuffed under Yokozawa, seated perpendicular to the man on the couch. "Kind of came out of nowhere."

Yokozawa squirmed, frowning at the invasion of space, and sighed softly. "Beats me. She's your kid." And though he said these things, they both understood that it was simply reflex by this point, and he thought of Hiyori as much his own responsibility as her father's. It was hard to disentangle himself from their complicated little family unit by this point, and these quips were the final vestiges of an attempt to maintain an air of aloofness and disconnect. 

Kirishima snorted, pulling his legs up to his chest and shifting around until they were seated side-by-side properly. His side was warm--almost uncomfortably so--where it pressed against Yokozawa. "I think maybe she just wanted to be sure."

"Huh?"

He let his head settle back, half against the couch cushion and half on Yokozawa's shoulder, closing his eyes contentedly. "That her parents loved each other."

" _Wha--_ " Yokozawa bristled, stiffening and twisting around to give Kirishima a piece of his mind. "Don't--say shit like that so casually."

"Why not?" He cracked an eye open and cocked his head to the side. "You have a better excuse?"

"We're not-- _I'm_ not her parent. And no kid in their right mind wants to hear about their parental _figures_ doing--mushy shit."

" _Mushy shi--_ are you sure _you're_ not the almost-twelve-year-old here? _Fuck_." He laughed breathlessly. "You're amazing, you know."

"What?" It didn't sound like a compliment.

"She's at a sensitive age." He shrugged. "She just wants a little reassurance."

"About _what_?"

"This." And Kirishima snaked a hand up and over Yokozawa's chest, steadying his grip at the nape of his neck to pull himself forward and press their lips together softly, letting his jaw drop open just a hair to turn the kiss from innocent to a warm, insistent reminder of their mutually shared feelings--

"Ah--!"

Yokozawa practically shoved Kirishima away at the soft, surprised peep that sounded from the door to the living room, hand going to his mouth, as if doing so might disguise what he'd just been doing. "Hiyo…" He coughed softly, ignoring the look of stark annoyance Kirishima was favoring him with. "You--done with your bath?"

She waved a brush shyly. "I wondered if you could brush my hair?"

"Oh--yeah, sure, absolutely." When Kirishima refused to move on his own, nearly in Yokozawa's lap at this point, he rolled his shoulder to unsettle him from his perch and raised an eyebrow knowingly, taking some small victory in the way Kirishima huffed in irritation before shifting off the couch entirely, snatching up his papers--and the ones Yokozawa had been nearly finished reviewing--and padding into their bedroom.

Settling back against the cushions of the couch, he tapped the edge between his legs, and Hiyori darted over and settled herself between his knees in proper seiza as she waited patiently for him to brush the tangles from her damp hair. It was as soothing to Yokozawa to go through these familiar motions as it must have been to Hiyori to receive his attentions, and he soon found the stress and tension from the evening seeping out, leaving him relaxed and light-headed, continuing his ministrations until well after all the tangles had been taken care of.

He patted her gently on the head to indicate he was finished, and she shakily rose to her feet on legs likely numb from her position--before shifting around abruptly and flinging herself into Yokozawa's arms, squeezing him tight and burying her face in his chest.

"Hi--Hiyo…?"

"I'm so _glad_ , Oniichan…"

"E--h?"

Her voice was almost unintelligible. "I'm glad you're here. And that you love Papa. I always thought I was the only one who…" He prayed she hadn't trailed off to keep herself from crying; he absolutely could not deal with a crying preteen tonight. She pulled back after a moment, though, and while her eyes were bright and maybe a bit shinier with moisture than usual, she didn't seem on the verge of hysterics. "Just--before…when Papa explained about Oniichan coming to live with us, I thought I understood…" She cocked her head, frown reflecting her confusion. "But then, you seemed the same as always, so I wasn't sure…"

"Hiyo…?"

She shook her head. "I'm just glad. That Papa has Oniichan. Really _really_ glad, so--"

And of course she was. Kirishima knew his daughter, had _raised_ his daughter, and much as Yokozawa hated to admit it--he tended to be right about matters like this. He was frustrating and irritating at the best of times, but half the reason for that was because he was always _right_. This kid didn't have a biased bone in her body; she just wanted some stability, wanted to know that Yokozawa was in this for the long haul. Wanted something she understood, something she could count on. Wanted to know that the person she cared for more than anyone else…was _happy_.

He cradled her jaw in both hands and leaned forward, kissing her forehead softly before he stopped to reflect on just how silly the action would've surely seemed to any onlookers.

"…What's that for, Oniichan?"

He shrugged. "Someone told me that if you really love someone, then sometimes you kiss them to show as much." She flushed with pride, and he patted her cheek before twirling her around with hands at her shoulders. "Now--bed."

She nodded firmly and padded off down the hall to her room, waving the brush in her hands as she bid him goodnight. He returned the wave with a soft smile before heaving a sigh of relief at the sound of her door shutting for the evening.

Then, with a shake of his head, he eased upright and scratched the back of his neck with a wordless grumble before wandering into their bedroom to settle things with Kirishima.


	28. Eye

To be honest, you never thought he'd rise to the challenge.

You've known him for a while now--long enough, you think, to form an accurate opinion on what he will and won't take as a personal affront to his honor--and while you admittedly take your teasing a bit too far sometimes (if he didn't provide such endearing reactions in return, you might tone it down some), it's only because you know he gets a bit of a thrill from your towing the line around him as well.

So it's something of a shock--although certainly not an unwelcome one--when he tilts his chin up, squares his jaw, and grinds out, " _Fine_."

"…Huh?"

"Your hearing going, old man? I said _fine_."

Fine. Fine, he'll prove to you that he's _not fucking gay_ , because he's damn tired of you bringing it up just to fluff your own ego and prod him to own up to a sexual orientation he _doesn't identify with_ (though hell, who are you to be ragging someone about being _gay_ just because they've slept with a man or three?), and now that you've thrown this figurative glove at his feet, he's fed up enough to take you up on your challenge: He'll do it.

He'll watch porn with you.

You're positive the shock must be registering on your face, because his defensive expression turns almost _sly_ , and he pokes you hard in the chest, sneering, "Unless you're the one who's all bluster and no balls to back it up? Attracted to pride, my ass."

You don't bother to correct him; if he wants to assume you turn more for men than women, let him. The prospect of tending homosexual doesn't really concern you--at least not as much as it clearly concerns him, and that's how this whole argument started in the first place. You quickly school your features and attempt to regain the upper hand; bedroom positions notwithstanding, you like being _on top_ , always.

Shaking your head, you cock the crooked grin you know irritates him as much as it turns him on. "Bold words, Yokozawa-san; you do realize I mean _straight_ porn, right?" 

You narrowly avoid the half-hearted swipe he makes at your face, catching his wrist with a tight grip and even tighter smile; his pulse is up--and so is yours now. He makes a meager effort--mostly for show--to remove himself from your grasp, but you don't give in, grinning at his obvious discomfort. He's _so good_ at reminding you why you only date proud people. "You shouldn't engage in violence; especially of the domestic sort."

"I'll damn well slug whoever I want if they're being an asshole."

"I've just offered to share a prime cut from my collection with you; that doesn't sound like being an 'asshole' to me."

He tugs again and catches you off guard, and your fingers flex open to release him. His glare softens to one which reflects his surrender. "Grown men shouldn't sit around watching porn together; we're not teenagers, idiot."

You shift off the couch, gracefully standing and stretching tall as if prepping for a bout of strenuous exercise (hey, who's to say some of that won't happen in due course?) before favoring him with a jerk of your head in invitation. "Unless you'd rather we just pop it in the DVD player in the living room?"

His face is an alternating shade of red and white, combined mortification and abject fear--likely at the prospect of Hiyo chancing upon your dirty little secret the next time she enjoys some television with her after-school snack--and you snap a hand out to grab a fistful of his shirt, tugging him forward with a shake of your head. "God, you make it too easy sometimes."

He sputters an indignant reply before jerking his shirt from your grasp, marching dutifully after you before you can frown at the action. He overtakes you in three strides, pushing past you into your bedroom and seeking out the small cathode-ray-tube appliance you've got stowed in the corner; you've been meaning to take it down to the second-hand shop for months now, but your procrastination is proving a boon just at the moment.

You leave him to make himself comfortable on the floor, back stiff and straight against the side of your bed, as you wander over to your closet and rustle around in the dusty upper shelves that you've made certain are far out of Hiyo's reach. 

You wonder offhandedly as you pull down one box, coughing softly at the dust that flies in your face, if you're supposed to feel embarrassed about your collection; all guys keep porn around, right? Surely even Yokozawa's got _something_ \--a girly magazine or a video he downloaded--secreted away somewhere, right?

And yet--what's going through your mind right now is nothing of excitement or building arousal at the impending romp through your checkered past courtesy of _Schoolgirl Sluts 9_ (the best of the three volumes you have, you believe), but rather…anticipation. 

You've never really _seen_ raw arousal on his face--pure, unadulterated _horniness_ , a product not of any feelings or emotional connections, just straight, clean physical responsiveness to proper stimuli.

You're kind of pulling for him not to be gay, honestly; if you wind up being right about this whole thing, this experience is about to be one hell of a wash, and you don't want to have to hit up the gay cinema section of the AV store just to get this chance again.

With the tape tucked under one arm, you use your free hand to pull out the top drawer of your bedside table, taking up a nondescript bottle of lotion and a box of tissues. You feel like a teenager, sneaking around like this with porn in one hand and lube in the other, and you snicker at yourself, drawing Yokozawa's attention.

"What the fuck is that for?"

You shrug and sidle around to him, daintily stepping over him where he's found a seat on the floor in front of your little TV, and settle down beside him. "I dunno about you, but I plan on getting off after all this trouble." Yokozawa eyes the lotion and tissues like instruments of the damned, giving them a wide berth where you set them down between the two of you. "…What, did you think we were gonna sit here and engage in witty commentary on the 'film'?"

" _No_ ," he snaps, but he's still got one eye trained on the lube. It's kind of cute; the wild bear of Marukawa Shoten, cowed by a half-empty tube of love gel. 

You lean forward on your knees to fiddle with the VCR, trying to remember all the hoops you have to jump through to get this thing working; you half-wish Hiyo were here. Your kid has proven herself a sight better with technology than her old man, you willingly admit. Something brushes your leg, and you glance back to see Yokozawa has stretched out comfortably now and has a brow raised in your direction, questioning.

"Keep your pants on; I promise it's worth the wait."

"I _didn't_ mean--" But he's cut off as the screen crackles to life, snowy nonsense for a moment before the picture corrects itself and flashes a shot of a woman on all fours, leaning forward on her elbows as a pudgy older man pounds into her from behind, your room suddenly filling with the familiar sounds of low-budget porn.

"Ah--there we are." You glance back, expression triumphant, but Yokozawa doesn't seem to share your excitement. Rolling your eyes, you settle back beside him and sigh, relieved at a job well done. "Want me to rewind it? Must've been in the middle of watching last time I--"

"It's _fine_ ," he growls, training his eyes at a point just over the TV and flushing with the strain (you assume it's the strain; you might be a little offended if he gets turned on faster by a woman playing a role half her age--and badly--than you).

You raise a brow, then shrug, "Suit yourself," and turn your attention to the video. It's an older one--you copied it from a video one of your friends loaned you in high school--and the quality's shit after all these years, but you're a guy, and you've never needed all that much to help along any fantasies. Sound's more helpful than images as you get older anyways, and the quality of _that_ remains pristine. You close your eyes for a moment and train your ears to the sounds of the room--the soft huffing cries of the actress on the screen, the loud slap of flesh coming together as her partner reams her, and barely detectable beside you, the labored breaths of Yokozawa as the video does its job.

 _Thank god_ , you want to cry with relief--maybe this won't be so bad after all. You make efforts to tune out the television, filtering away the scripted cries and filthy language and instead turning your ear to the sounds Yokozawa's making, perhaps unconsciously. 

Cocking your head slightly to funnel the sound more effectively, you slowly slide your right hand up, and over your thigh, fingers trailing lightly over the pant material, until you brush over your crotch meaningfully, palming yourself gently through the thin cloth. You hear his breath catch next to you, and it's gorgeous.

"…What the _hell_ are you doing?"

Lazily opening your eyes, an ugly frown splits your face. "…What does it look like?" You give yourself another squeeze, raising a brow. "Getting into the mood."

He draws his knees up to his chest, glaring at you lest you get any ideas. "Thought you were supposed to _watch_ porn if you were gonna get off to it."

"Porn is a _full-body_ experience, Yokozawa; I'm just engaging all my senses." And it isn't a lie, though _taste_ will be a bit difficult to wrangle if your partner isn't cooperative (and your partner is pretty much _never_ cooperative). He scoffs and glances away, foolishly turning his attention back to the television now (the girl's somehow wound up on her back, knees up near her ears), and you've lost him.

You watch him for a few long moments--staring in rapt attention as he drinks in the filthy video. His legs tremble subtly with the strain of his keeping them pulled up to his chest, and he shortly releases the tension and lets his legs slowly settle back to the floor before him, splayed for comfort. His cheeks are flushed--but they do that a lot around you, usually in irritation or mortification (though sometimes arousal). You wonder what's got them glowing red this time--maybe all three. 

You let your legs fall open a bit more, sliding a finger under the slit in the thin bottoms you've been lounging around in all day; if Hiyo were here, she'd have been on your case about being _so lazy Papa!_ but--she's not here. She's in Kyoto on a school trip and you and Yokozawa are here, on the floor in your bedroom, ostensibly watching porn but really just trying to figure out what the next _step_ is.

A new scene's starting on the screen; a pair in the shower, one of those fancy all-glass ones like in the Prince Hotel that make you feel rich just _standing_ in them. It's all slow and sensual, and you recall distantly this is one of your favorites on this tape. You like the ones with a bit of believability to them--the ones where it feels like the pair remotely give a shit about one another. Plus--well, _showers_. You've always been partial to those.

And maybe Yokozawa has as well, for he's got his knees cocked a little wider now, his back arched a little more to push his hips forward, sliding down against the bed as if attempting to push his own crotch away in sheer disgust at the state it's in: he's getting hard. You can't really see it, but you know what Yokozawa looks like when he's getting turned on, know he doesn't generally like you to _know_ that (so you've gotten quite adept over time at divining just when his motor's going). It's all subtlety with him--the finesse he lacks in making his demands known in day-to-day life is showcased beautifully here and now, in the way he takes long, shallow breaths so you don't notice him huffing with arousal, the way his fingers twitch at his sides as he fights doing what you know he wants to--touching himself, but mostly in the way you _know him_ , know what sorts of things he likes and doesn't like, know that you doing things _like this_ turns him on as much as any porn clip ever could. It's not ego; it's fact, time-tested and confirmed.

You reach out, slowly and carefully so as not to disturb him, like some wild, confused animal, and take the lotion in hand, popping the cap and squeezing a dollop into your palm. It's chilly on your flushed skin, and your breath hitches, but he's got his focus trained on the couple on screen--who are now fucking vigorously beneath a gentle spray, bodies pressed against the steaming glass--and he doesn't give you a second thought. You take advantage of his distraction and ease your cock from its confines, palming it gently to accustom it to the cool, slick glide of your hand. You sigh deeply and settle in, stroking yourself a few times in succession, just enjoying the slide of your fingers, and the tight channel you've made for yourself.

You haven't been _celibate_ all these years…but you've grown skilled in the fine art of pleasuring yourself nonetheless, as you're never going to have to awkwardly introduce your right hand to Hiyo after a one-night stand turns sour, and your palm's never going to call asking when it can see you again. 

It's been nice since Yokozawa's come into the picture, though. Not that you get to do it all that often, or that you're less often relegated to self-pleasure (quite the contrary, you've probably had to jerk off with _more_ frequency since he entered your life), but…at least you don't feel so empty after doing it, now. At least it leaves you feeling like you've reaffirmed something within you, like you weren't just doing it for the sake of getting off and starting the morning refreshed but--to start the morning off with thoughts of someone you cared about. It's sappy, and if he knew what you use his image for (even in the privacy of your own mind), he'd probably thump you good, but what he doesn't know won't hurt him, and you more than make it up to him whenever the opportunity presents itself.

It doesn't take much to work yourself into a strong erection, stiff and hot as you slick your palm over the shaft in ever-increasingly frequent strokes, and in embarrassingly short order, you've found yourself stiff and straining; you smile wryly, noting how little it takes these days with thoughts of Yokozawa on your mind to bring yourself off.

Or maybe it's the proximity; you glance over, and Yokozawa's now visibly rubbing himself through his pants, the flush to his cheeks clearly one of arousal, as it snakes down his nape and over his collarbones, drawing your eye to the way his chest rises and falls with labored breathing. Your gaze follows the rumpled casual laziness of his shirt to the hem of his pants where an obvious bulge sits just beneath the tight material, given shape by the way his fingers cup around himself--and you lick your lips and give yourself a tug because _fuck_ , him sitting here quiet and docile, just idly touching himself without a cross word or harsh glare? Is hotter than it should be.

Maybe he can feel you watching him, or maybe he's just learned to suspect the worst when you go all quiet--but he grunts softly when the actress on screen lets out a particularly sharp squeal and snaps his gaze to meet yours, brows furrowing in irritation when he finds you looking at him. "You're supposed to be watching the fucking video."

"No--you are," you counter with a smile. "I'm not the one denying an attraction to men."

"I never denied any _attrac_ \--hnng!" But his protests are cut off when you reach over with your free hand and rub the heel of your palm across his crotch, pulling from him such a sound as you rarely hear. He's never that vocal in bed--at first you wondered if it wasn't his way of attempting to maintain what he deemed was some semblance of dignity while you fucked (unnecessary in your humble opinion), but now you think it just might be another one of his quirks, all the sounds you wring from him dying swift deaths in his throat before you get to hear them. 

He snaps a hand out to grip vise-like around your wrist, but he doesn't force you off. "Where the fuck are you touching?"

"If you have to ask…"

And now he _does_ brush you off. "Keep your hands on your own cock," he mutters, using this excuse to drag down the zip on his pants and ease himself out properly. "How long do we have to do this anyways?"

A smile tugs at your lip at the unspoken surrender. "…Til one of us comes." He catches your eye, furious, and you add for good measure, "Feel free to help me along if you're so eager for it to be over." He bites his lip in response, turning back to the television and angrily stuffing his hand in his pants.

You pull your hand back and leave him to his business--and as you watch with unguarded interest as he starts to stroke himself to full arousal, something clicks and takes your breath away, stilling your own hand. 

You've never seen him jerk himself off.

Not like this, not from a cold start up to the glorious conclusion. It's always in the midst of some hasty joining you've conned him into agreeing to after Hiyo's gone to bed or before she wakes up, something fast and heavy and not at all the kind of slow, built-up love-making you're ashamed to admit some part of you still kind of misses. You've never gotten to sit there and watch him expose himself like this, expressing all his pent-up arousal and desire in the rawest way he can, at the hands of the person who knows how he wants to be touched best: himself. 

You stare, transfixed, and your gaze trails up from where he's started swiping a finger over his crown, forgoing the lotion for the natural lubricant already seeping from his cock, and take in the steady rise and fall of his chest, the delicate shudder of his shoulders as he works himself, the pulse throbbing beneath the long line of his neck, and his jaw hanging open just so, drawing in haggard breaths--as he stares straight ahead, the light of the television reflected in his unblinking eyes.

His pupils are dilated in the dim light of your room, and he lets out a soft whining grunt, leaning forward slightly into the tug he gives himself on his cock--in the video, you hear the actress murmuring a steady stream of breathy _yes_ es, the husky tone making her pleas sound all the more genuine, and something bolts through you, a frown marring your face to reflect your swiftly souring mood. 

In one quick, smooth movement, you heave yourself up onto your knees and twist around to straddle him, settling yourself right in front of him, one hand on his shoulder to steady you as you slowly lower yourself down to rest on his thighs. He's alert in an instant, grousing his protests and confusion, "What the hell are you--"

"I changed my mind." Your voice is strained and unsteady, and you feel like you don't have enough air in your lungs. You're surprised you don't trip over your words, because everything just comes pouring out of you in one long cascade of entreaty. "I changed my mind--don't watch the porn. Watch me."

"The _fuck_ \--" You ease your hand over his shoulder and palm the nape of his neck, directing him to look you square in the eye so he can see your naked desperation. If you have to feel it, so does he. He swallows thickly, mouth opening and closing a few times before muttering gruffly, "…Make up your mind."

You lean forward to press your forehead to his, lips curling up at the corners in a crooked smile, and you take yourself in hand again, this time going for a slow, tantric buildup as you stare at him unabashedly. It's difficult to take him, this close-up as you are, but other senses take over to complete the picture--the heat radiating off his skin, the scent of the thin sheen of sweat coursing over his body mingling with the subtle floral hint of the lotion, the muffled sound of the video in the background overshadowed now by his breath in your ear and the tiny grunts and moans you missed before.

And--you cock your head to the side and press forward, hovering just over his lips…and wait. You can feel his glare, catching that tell-tale glint in the corner of your eye, and this just thrills you all the more--your patience being rewarded when he thrusts his chin up and lets his jaw drop open to press his lips to yours, tongue swiping out in challenge when you don't open quickly enough for his liking.

You're on him in a flash--fingers flying over your cock, robotic motions barely noticed now that your attentions are elsewhere, and tongue and lips sliding in a hot, frantic joining against the man beneath you. Your hand brushes his between the two of you as he works himself just as feverishly, and in the back of your mind, you release a lament that _I never got to watch him jerk himself off_. If this is what the very notion does to you, though, you wonder if you'll ever be able to muster up the restraint to let him finish, period.

You can feel a familiar tightness building up inside you at the base of your spine, tendrils of sensation and promise snaking up your shaft and wrapping snugly round your balls, and you whisper your impending release against his lips, searching his eyes for an update on his own condition. He closes them in spite--and you smile crookedly, pressing him back against the edge of the bed using your weight and thrusting your tongue in deep to suck against his own in as close to an oral fucking as you can give just now. On every pass, you pull back just enough to whisper his name--occasionally coupled with some fresh expletive so he knows you're not going soft on him--until you feel him cry and jerk against you, seizing up in place and spilling himself over his hand and a bit on yours as well. 

He shivers and cocks his head to the side to catch his breath, each pant coming out as part of your name as he struggles to string syllables together _Kiri…shima…san…_ , and it's more than enough to undo you as you sling your free arm up and around his neck, pressing your chests together as close as you can. Your cock swells in your hand before twitching in release, sensitive skin flushed and hot even as you continue to milk yourself over your own fingers and his, still wrapped around his own now-limp cock.

You lie slumped against him for an interminable period, kissing him lazily--which he allows, mostly because he's still not made it out of his refractory period. You're not trying to start anything now--and the video must have ended, because everything's gone quiet. You just want to hold on to this moment for a little while longer, before he's back to the proud, brash bear you've grown fond of, before you remember that you're not married to this guy and need to stop acting so damned _whipped_. 

He's the first to break the moment, of course, poking you in the stomach until you arch your back and leave space between your chests. He stares down between you with a frown, tugging at his shirt. "…You got it all over my clothes, asshole."

You ease back onto your perch across his thighs and snort your amusement. He can be such a _girl_ sometimes; it's a wonder he lets himself have sex in the first place, so averse to getting sweaty and dirty does he seem at times. "I did bring you tissues, if you'll recall. Did you think they were to blow your nose?"

"Well _someone_ sat his ass in my lap and I couldn't reach them!" he growls, flexing his thighs in a vain effort to unseat you. "If you wanted to just jerk off together, I don't see why we had to go through all this--"

You can't explain your reasoning, as you don't really understand it yourself, so you just kiss him again. It solves enough problems. You keep it slow and sensual, but still not building up to anything, and offering a soft kiss against the side of his mouth, you whisper through a smile, "You bitch and moan with the best of them, you know? I love that."

He shivers beneath you, grousing in response, "Don't--whisper shit like that by my ear. It weirds me out." You just laugh and bury your face in the crook of his neck; there's nothing he can say or do that you don't find endearing in some way--though you're pretty sure he understands that already. "…I'm not _gay_."

You pull back, momentarily confused at the sudden change in topic--before you remember why you're sitting here in his lap, your cocks flapping about for all the world to see. "…You're a _little_ gay."

"You're a _little_ bit of a smug asshole."

"Mmm," you offer by way of concession, pissing him off even more by kissing the bit of skin below his ear to whisper roughly, "But you love that about me. A _little_."

He shudders beneath you--and you'd be hard-pressed to tell whether it was in response to your breath across his ear or the words laden on it. He brings his free arm up around your lower back, though, fingers tracing your spine up to just between your shoulder blades. "…Don't have to sound so damned smug about it."

Pity that he doesn't understand that you _absolutely_ have to sound so smug. It's something to be proud of--and you intend on enjoying every minute of it.


	29. Sudden

It's the sudden things that rock boats; if he'd had some fair warning--hell, if he'd taken five minutes to _consider_ the fact that it might happen--Yokozawa surely would've reacted more appropriately, but as it is, when Masamune sidles up beside him at the New Year's shindig, all smooth confidence and crooked smiles for the mangaka milling around them, Yokozawa's ashamed at the way he mentally sits up straight and takes detailed inventory of the man before him.

Of course, he's offered an easy out, a welcome distraction, with the way Kirishima-san at his arm pokes his head forward to block his gaze, lifting a brow and nudging his shoulder with a hissed, "It's not polite to stare, Yokozawa-san." Yokozawa sputters some sharp retort, but it's clear it only serves to verify the man's suspicions, and he's cool as a winter snap when Masamune comes within earshot.

Kirishima-san's not even supposed to _be_ here. _Japun_ have an author roster a mile long, and they've turned out for the glitzy annual affair in droves seldom seen. Given that few mangaka can afford Tokyo life, time and budgetary constraints generally restrict the New Year's Party to those mangaka within a stone's throw of the Teito Hotel. What's different about this year compared to the five or so previous ones Yokozawa has attended, he's not sure, but suffice to say the ballroom is packed to the gills. He hopes Masamune has fastened some sort of bell to Onodera, or the guy's liable to be lost in the fray. Which would be such a _pity_.

He spots a few of _Japun_ 's other editors and can hear murmuring from across the way as a crowd of shoujo mangaka on the prowl hone in on Ijuuin-sensei, but Kirishima-san makes no move to extricate himself from Yokozawa's side.

Instead, he knocks back the last of the wine he's likely stolen from one of the waitstaff flitting about the ballroom, setting the empty glass on a table behind them, and Yokozawa hisses, "You're not supposed to drink; go take care of your damn author and do your job."

"I'm the editor-in-chief; you can't tell me what to do." It's difficult to tell if this is drunken petulance or just plain old unadulterated Kirishima-san. 

Yokozawa would snap back at him--probably something along the lines of _Hiyo would be ashamed to see her old man getting smashed this early in the evening_ , but Masamune's nearly before them now, and instead he directs his attention to his friend--he clearly has a purpose in engaging this awkward conversation.

Masamune jerks a thumb over his shoulder, cocking his head. "Kusakawa-san, from Animate. He's being waylaid by Kisa and Mino right now, but he'll want to give his greetings to you, too, I'm sure." No introductions, no _hope your New Year's went well_ ; hell, even Onodera had offered him mochi their first day back at Marukawa. It's his first time speaking to Masamune on a personal basis since the year started, and he frowns inwardly at the irritation this causes.

He shrugs off Kirishima-san's arm, carefully directing his gaze across the room to where he can spot Kisa weaving to and fro as he directs one of his authors through the crowd to give the Animate rep her well-wishes. It's best he keep his focus elsewhere, as he doesn't want to deal with the offended frown he's sure Kirishima-san is sporting right about now.

He nods his thanks to Masamune and pushes through the crowd towards his target, leaving Kirishima-san and Masamune to make nice with one another. As if this is remotely a possibility.

* * *

Kirishima feels a desperate lump rise in his throat as he watches Yokozawa slip away across the ballroom; panic, that's what it is. Yokozawa's abandoned him not to an author, not to duties, but set him right here on the sidelines with none other than _Takano_.

They both have things to do, authors to schmooze. They're editors-in-chief, and tonight is as much work as when they're behind their desks. And yet neither is of a mind, he suspects, to yield ground here, and without Yokozawa in the middle to tell Takano off or forcibly shove Kirishima in the direction of one of his subordinates, they must stand here, toe to toe, at a rather awkward impasse.

He realizes only now, belatedly, that…he's never been in this sort of situation with Takano. They've interacted in meetings, casually chatted in passing in the elevator, sure--but this? Standing around, making small talk at a party? Ridiculous.

"I hear Ijuuin-sensei's numbers were up last quarter. Congratulations."

Kirishima's chest seizes, but outside he's cool as a cucumber. "Thank you. He's in the running for the Akabane Memorial Award, and we're hoping the increased sales will fan the fervor a bit." He gropes for some idle comment to make, wracking his brain for some tidbit on _Emerald_ \--but Takano one-ups him.

"And how are the new living arrangements?"

It's forward; far more personal than Takano has any business asking in the middle of a work function, especially to someone he barely knows. "I'm surprised you haven't heard from Yokozawa."

Takano shrugs, as if this hardly concerns him. As if Yokozawa is the least of his worries. "It hasn't come up." Which is bullshit; he knows they've gone out for drinks on several occasions since Yokozawa moved in a matter of months before, and for his moving in with the Kirishimas not to have come up is impossible. "He doesn't like to talk about stuff like that."

Kirishima isn't sure what _stuff like that_ is, but regardless of whether or not Takano means it to be, he feels the sharp barb of _shouldn't you know that kind of thing?_ acutely. Some part of himself sneers at his reaction; he's acting ridiculous, like a child--but it doesn't stop him from returning, "Or maybe he just doesn't like to talk about it with you."

Takano raises a brow, but it's impossible to tell from his expression whether he's genuinely offended or simply amused at the effect his mere presence is having on Kirishima. "…My living with Onodera comes up frequently, then?"

Kirishima wishes he hadn't finished off the wine; he would have very much liked to have thrown it in Takano's face.

* * *

A thick, strangled grunting cry works its way up from Yokozawa's chest, and he bites his hand, teeth sinking into the soft flesh of his palm, to force it into a whining drawl that's more effectively stifled in the tense darkness of Kirishima-san's room.

Hiyo's sleeping just down the hall--has been since she went to bed over three hours ago--and there's little risk of her rousing now, but still. Yokozawa would rather be safe than worry about how to explain his state or what the sounds of their lovemaking _really_ are (Kirishima-san can only have so many 'nightmares' or 'conversations in his sleep').

His efforts to keep quiet, though, are hamstrung by his partner, and Kirishima-san just snorts inelegantly at Yokozawa, shaking his head and renewing his own attentions to Yokozawa's cock. It's late, they've both got work in the morning, and typically these conditions would preclude any type of sex _period_ , but as soon as Kirishima-san's mother had been bid good evening and Hiyo safely tucked away (her grandmother had sent her off long before they'd arrived home, but Kirishima-san had proven surprisingly fatherly in his insistence he check on her before retiring), he'd dragged Yokozawa into his room, ignoring all hissed protests, and commenced with rather poker-faced seduction.

Usually he's all smirks and softly whispered quips meant to rile, kisses and touches that he executes less to induce pleasure and more just to piss Yokozawa off; tonight, though, he's quiet and calm, a stark contrast to Yokozawa writhing beneath him--and it's abundantly clear that the only reason he's not being fucked through the mattress right now is because Kirishima-san doesn't want to. Or doesn't want to _yet_.

He's sitting on Yokozawa's legs, straddling them, and they're both naked from the waist down. It would be comedic in any other light; their top halves are still dressed to the nines--hell, Kirishima-san's sports jacket only just barely made it off before he laved a strip of saliva across his palm and tugged Yokozawa's cock out of the boxers he stripped off only a moment later.

It's always been irksome, Kirishima-san's superior strength (and knowledge of how to use it), but tonight it's almost worrisome--not because Yokozawa seriously fears he'll be subjected to something he doesn't want, but because the guy seems so _out of it_ tonight, so beyond caring, that Yokozawa can't get a read on him. With Kirishima-san, that usually means something's wrong and he can only think that reasserting their physical relationship will soothe him, stroking and thrusting and licking and sucking until everything falls back into place as it should be.

Yokozawa's the type to talk things out; Kirishima-san seems more the type to fuck them out.

Which isn't necessarily _so_ bad a thing, except that it means Yokozawa has to approach every instance of sexual congress with the appraising eye of a man who isn't sure if his coming too quickly might be construed to mean _You're smothering me!_

Kirishima-san gives him another long stroke, forming two fingers into a tight ring at the base and tugging upwards, wrapping the other fingers along to tighten the channel as he does so. By the time he reaches the crown, he brushes his palm over it with a flourish and snorts softly when Yokozawa gives another muffled grunting cry, free hand punching the mattress beside him mercilessly.

"You're enough to make me wish I didn't have a daughter sometimes," he mutters, pausing to give delicate attentions to the head, trailing fingers lightly up and down the shaft again before setting them to dancing lightly at his tip, spreading the gathering liquid to ease subsequent strokes. "The have _school trips_ once they start middle school, you know. Won't that be fun?"

He isn't sure if he's supposed to answer or not, so he settles for glaring up at the man. He's more concerned at the moment with determining how the hell he's supposed to get the guy to hurry up and jerk him off so they can get to bed _without_ explicitly demanding as such--he's less inclined to be direct with Kirishima-san when most every word out of his mouth turns into some witty repartee at his expense.

This is starting to become a non-issue, though, as his physical reactions to Kirishima-san's attentions are beginning to be insistence enough, and Kirishima-san repositions himself so that he's leaning forward, close, so close that Yokozawa worries--wonders, hopes--that he's going to be drawn into one of the guy's searing, searching kisses.

Yokozawa licks his lips preemptively--but Kirishima-san pauses, frowning, and pulls back slightly, as if he's just remembered something distasteful. It's the last straw, and Yokozawa gives in. "For fuck's sake--if you're going to do it, get on with it. My legs are going numb."

 _Don't get your panties in a twist_ is what he expects to hear in response, or maybe _A little encouragement'll go a long way here, you know_ , but instead all he gets is a hesitant, "…I'm going to ask you something unfair again."

"…Huh?"

"I'm sorry," he apologizes preemptively, and gives Yokozawa's cock a sympathetic stroke, as if attempting to make up through sexual favors for what he's about to do. He braces his free hand beside Yokozawa's head, letting it slip down to the elbow to bring them close. At this distance, Yokozawa can hear his breathing pick up.

"…What would you do…if Takano ever said he wanted you back?"

Yokozawa's stomach churns uneasily, and he feels like Kirishima-san's sitting not just across his thighs, but on his chest, pressing down and choking him off, and he responds in an appalled sputter, "What--the _hell_ would make you…ask such a…"

Kirishima-san just grimaces, patently annoyed, and releases Yokozawa's cock, leaning down supported by both arms now. "Don't give me that; _think_ about it. I don't ask questions I don't give shits about."

Yokozawa shoves him, hard, against the chest--and Kirishima-san jerks back, more in shock than in actual response to the assault. He works himself up onto his elbow and clenches his thighs, hoping to unseat Kirishima-san. It doesn't work. "I don't care if you give a fucking _truckload_ of shit about it--I can't believe you'd have the gall to ask a question like that--" He cuts himself off before he adds _in the middle of sex_ , ashamed that that's a good portion of why he's as irritated as he is.

It's not as if he wouldn't understand the question coming up, after all.

They're both of them still relatively fresh off of failed previous relationships, and while Yokozawa only need worry about memories of Kirishima-san's wife coming between them, Masamune is…a much more tangible threat. Ostensibly, at least.

Kirishima-san must have taken his silence as acquiescence, for he peppers Yokozawa here with arguments in gentler tones. "It's not a stupid question; just…a 'what if'. _What if_ he wanted you?" He drops his gaze, seemingly ashamed at himself for even asking--and Yokozawa feels a flash of smug satisfaction. _Good; you_ should _feel that way_. "Just--you never really stop loving that first person you dedicated yourself to, and even if it wasn't returned, it's still--"

"I don't want to hear this shit from _you_ of all people," he grinds out in a frustrated hiss. "You're one to talk; at least I don't keep his picture around or--let Hiyo flip through our wedding album or _fucking leave you behind_ when I go to visit him--"

And Kirishima-san's face goes white--with what emotion, Yokozawa can't tell. His voice shakes with the same emotion, though. "That is--a _completely_ unfair comparison. She's Hiyo's _mother_ , and I'm only thinking about you! _Fuck_ , I can't ask you to come do grave-tending or anything like--"

"I _know_ , idiot," Yokozawa reminds him with a sigh, and slaps his cheek lightly to force color back into it. Kirishima-san's hand snaps him, gripping him tight by the wrist and holding it to his chest. "I don't _want_ to go. But I wish you'd stop stepping on fucking eggshells around me. I'm not scared of her."

His hand this close to Kirishima-san's chest, he can feel the heartbeat racing beneath the skin. Kirishima-san's grip loosens around him. "…Good." He adds with a twitch of his lip, "…She wouldn't be scared of you either."

Yokozawa jerks his hand back, comfortable Kirishima-san's in a reasoning mood now. "You're a piece of work, you know?" The guy just looks confused; as usual, it does nothing to improve Yokozawa's demeanor, all the more because he knows it's genuine. "I can't believe you don't already know the answer to that question damn well." He waves towards the door. "Even if for some unfathomable reason you thought I was a big enough asshole to do that to you, to dump your ass because a better deal came along--you _seriously_ think I'd do that to a _kid_? You think--" He pokes Kirishima-san in the chest, "--that I would be here, would _live_ with you--and you know damn well you're not the easiest person to live with--if I wasn't 100% dedicated to you two?" He flops back down onto his back, wiping his hands over his face and groaning, "I don't think I could face her if she ever found out I'd dumped her papa for someone who'd already rejected me. Twice."

Kirishima-san doesn't seem wholly convinced, gaze still listing to the side because he knows if he looks straight on Yokozawa will bore into him until he gives in, and Yokozawa eventually tires of putting up with this half-assed dithering, heaving himself up until Kirishima-san teeters backwards, falling rather inelegantly onto his back. Legs finally freed, Yokozawa settles himself comfortably between Kirishima-san's own legs (making a point to remind his still-hard cock that, despite their positions, he's not about to fuck the guy) and braces his hands on either side of Kirishima-san's head, hoping to give himself a bit of power by position.

"Are you this thick by nature, or is it a technique you've had to develop over time?" Kirishima-san quickly recovers from the shock of being so soundly upended, and glowers at the accusation. "Cause this kind of shit's getting old. Masamune's my _friend_ , not your eternal rival or some shit. I realize it's kind of ridiculous for _me_ to be lecturing you on this, but someone's got to help you screw your head on straight." Kirishima-san opens his mouth, then closes it again in thought, pursing his lips. Yokozawa pokes him in the chest again; he likes how it makes him feel like he's in control, funnily enough. "If you've got something to say, spit it out."

"I know," he responds to an unspoken challenge. "I know--that it's stupid. I just can't help it. I feel like a fucking teenage girl getting pissed her guy's talking to a pretty classmate, but no matter how I tell myself that, it's still--"

He stops when Yokozawa rolls his eyes, lips curling into a sneer. "You're talking as if I don't understand exactly how you feel. You think I don't know how much it fucking sucks and how you can't control it? You think I don't know what it does to you inside, walking around with all that doubt and jealousy eating away at you all the time?" The sneer fades away to an expression which more accurately reflects his torn emotions right now. "Before…"

"…Eh?"

"Before," he repeats, voice still low but stronger, "You told me that--if you know you're loved, then there's no need to feel jealousy." He grimaces, but mostly at himself. "So obviously you feel that way because I'm not pulling my weight here."

And Kirishima-san _laughs_. Not a guffaw, but a soft chuckle free of his usual wry amusement, nothing but genuine affection laced through. Yokozawa's frown deepens when the guy reaches up to brush his cheek with the backs of his fingers. "Sappy shit like that…it doesn't suit you. Adorable though it may be."

Something flashes in Yokozawa's eyes, and rather than rip the guy's head off verbally for the quip, he reaches down between them and takes Kirishima-san's cock in hand, stroking slowly but purposefully to work him up to the fevered pitch he himself was in before their interruption. Before Kirishima-san can protest or offer commentary that will likely make Yokozawa regret this course of action, he leans down and forward, pressing their lips together and sliding a tongue between to instantly deepen the kiss, drawing the noises Kirishima-san releases into his mouth and swallowing them up.

He gentles himself and pulls back slightly, placing lighter kisses at the corner of his mouth, the swell of his jaw, that strip of flesh just below his ear, the line of his neck--pausing only a moment to catch his breath and inhale the sent of Kirishima-san's arousal. Arms have come up, wrapping him tightly with fingers digging into his flesh through the thick material of his shirt and holding him close. He swallows thickly and swipes a thumb across the crown of the cock heavy and hard in his palm.

"If you need a vow…or some shit like that," he starts, voice gruff and low not from arousal for once, but sheer nerves, "…I'll swear it." He starts to rub his own cock along side Kirishima-san's in his hand, executing slow, shallow thrusts to give himself courage, to distract. "You know…I can't say words like _that_ so easily…but if it's just once…"

Kirishima-san pulls back, pushing himself down into the mattress to try and bring Yokozawa into clear enough focus. His brows are drawn together in clear confusion. "…What?"

Yokozawa presses their foreheads together, clumsily taking both cocks in hand and ratcheting up his attentions to try and make this quick. Before him, Kirishima-san's face blurs from the proximity, so he just closes his eyes and mutters, "That half-assed proposal of yours." He swallows thickly. "I'll accept it."

It's sudden, it's spur-of-the-moment, it's everything Yokozawa thinks he hates…but knows deep down they sometimes need.

He isn't sure what to make of it when Kirishima-san shudders beneath him, going rigid and spilling over his hand as he gropes blindly at Yokozawa's shirt, wrinkling it. The release further slicks the channel between them, and Yokozawa groans at the sensation as he slides more quickly into the tight grip of his own fingers, relishing the friction between his palm and the cock next to his own. It's only a moment later when he grunts his own climax, breathing heavily in the still space between them until he's drained himself dry and the remnants between them start to cake up into a thick paste.

He stares for a long time, far longer than is appropriate, at the mess they've made--mostly because the alternative would be to look at Kirishima-san, and he isn't quite sure if he can handle that just yet. The chemical high of building arousal and orgasm has abated, and he's left sitting here in the dark, fully conscious, fully aware that the things he's just said in the height of passion are going to doggedly follow him out the bedroom door and into the light of day where they will seem less _romantic_ and more _fuck me what the hell was I thinking_.

There's a long stretch of silence, and just when Yokozawa despairs that he'll have to be the one to break it, Kirishima-san spares him, somehow sounding petulant despite everything. "…It wasn't a half-assed proposal."

It's just what Yokozawa needs, and he jerks his gaze up, instantly on the defensive. Irritation and annoyance--these are familiar emotions he associates with Kirishima-san, and he's only just now realizing how they're starting to feel _right_ with this guy. Maybe he'll never be able to shed that _tsundere_ skin entirely. "I saw no ring. I heard no _request_."

"Well if I'd known _that_ was all it took--"

Yokozawa braces a hand against his shoulder, keeping him pinned. Kirishima-san could likely remove him bodily if he wanted, so it must mean he doesn't mind. "You got the acceptance; don't push your luck by bitching about it taking too long." Kirishima-san zips his lip with a quirk of his brow and settles down, and Yokozawa eases his hold. "…If I leave you, it'll be because of something stupid you did. Not because an ex whisked me away in some hypothetical fantasy you've concocted, understand?"

Kirishima-san's good mood visibly sours. "Comforting, that."

"Just don't do stupid shit and we're good," he reminds evenly, lifting up onto his knees to shuffle to the side, settling back against the mattress beside Kirishima-san. Another silent beat passes, and Yokozawa interrupts it this time: "Just…if you really need it…"

"Huh?" He can feel Kirishima-san shifting in the darkness next to him.

"If you get stupid trumped up notions like that stuck in your head again and you need me to say it, I'll do it." He doesn't specify what _it_ is, and Kirishima-san blessedly doesn't ask for clarification this time.

"…Shouldn't make promises you can't keep," Kirishima-san teases softly, rolling onto his side and spooning close until he's practically whispering in his ear. "I'm liable to need such reassurances daily, then."

Yokozawa squirms from the tickling way Kirishima-san's breath falls over his skin, and he tugs the pillow behind them close, fluffing it with a punch before settling onto his own side, facing Kirishima-san. It's dark, and he can only see the guy's eyes as pinpoints of light reflecting in the dimness. "There are other ways of nipping these things in the bud," he reminds simply, then takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, effectively ending the conversation.

Kirishima-san just chuckles lowly and draws close; his body heat is stifling, but Yokozawa doesn't move. He can stomach one evening of this at least. "She would've wanted me to marry you…" he trails off, and then adds, because he can, "…So would he."

Yokozawa can think of nothing to counter with or add, and so he does neither.


	30. Book

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a little break from the norm for me; the next few chapters will be sequentially connected, a kind of miniseries that I felt like doing and decided to fold into this collection here. **Premise:** I've always been irked that Kirishima kind of played on Yokozawa's pride and goaded him into having sex when he wasn't really ready, even if things worked out, so I'm setting out to write a semi-semi-semi AU where they don't get to go all the way that first night and instead have to work up to it a bit more until _both_ parties are comfortable with the decision :) Enjoy this multi-parter! This first bit takes place right as things are getting hot and heavy between the pair in canon (with bits of dialogue lifted directly from the translation sprinkled throughout the story).

_Shit_.

This wasn't the _do-over_ Yokozawa had been anticipating, and he felt a fleeting moment of panic slice through his body as Kirishima slipped two fingers beneath the hem of his briefs, sliding along the line of elastic and easing the material down, sending Yokozawa's unbuttoned slacks pooling beneath him as well. He clenched his fingers, white-kunckled, tight around the wrist. "Horny...asshole," he growled under his breath, and if Kirishima was offended, he didn't verbalize it, simply brushing oil-slicked fingers over Yokozawa's cock, embarrassingly already hot and heavy in its confines just from Kirishima's kisses.

It wasn't supposed to go like this--he was supposed to apologize (check) and Kirishima was supposed to forgive him (though the guy seemed insistent Yokozawa hadn't done anything explicitly _wrong_ , he was still going to call that 'check'), and then they were supposed to have a pleasant dinner with an equally pleasant dessert once Hiyo returned. He was _not_ supposed to be here, in Kirishima's bedroom--on Kirishima's _bed_ , yet again finding himself with his pants down and cock hard just because he didn't want someone he cared for to hate him. His mind roiled with tamped down memories, sweat-slick skin and panted, heaving breaths that would turn chilled and drawn in the cold light of the next morning and _fuck_ he didn't want that, not again--he didn't want someone to _want him now_ and then push him aside, _away_ , when they'd siphoned off the comfort of a moment.

Kirishima's fingers tightened around him, giving a slick, sharp tugging upstroke before swiping a thumb across his crown, and Yokozawa toppled forward onto all fours with a strangled cry, clenching his eyes shut and choking when he felt Kirishima press up against him from behind, an insistent hardness brushing over the cleft of his ass with shallow mock thrusts in rough time to his strokes. "While I have to say I'd rather you turned around...I'll admit you're pretty fucking hot like this, Yokozawa. In case you were wondering."

"Thanks--for the update," he grunted, biting his lip as Kirishima's still-clothed erection brushed the back of his balls. The strength in his arms was going, and his thighs were trembling with the effort to keep himself upright; the temptation to just slump to the bed and roll over, let Kirishima do with him what he would, was almost overwhelming--and equal parts embarrassing.

That Kirishima could quite literally bring him to his knees like this was borderline _humiliating_ , more so because the guy didn't even seem entirely conscious of the effect he had on Yokozawa, for better or worse. He just stood there, all cocky confidence (well-founded even, dammit) and dragged Yokozawa out of his shitty self-loathing hole and into dim-lit, smoky bars and sun-baked rooftops and his close, suffocating bedroom and made him _think_ , not about Masamune or college loves lost or how he loved with his whole self but it was never enough--but about failed attempts at soufflés and fraction-based mathematics and all the different smiles Kirishima wore that had nothing to do with making nice with authors and higher-ups and everything to do with his daughter showing off a good mark on a test or Sorata kneading his pant-leg after a good ear-scratching or getting to pay Yokozawa's bar tab just so he could be owed one.

It was demeaning--irritating, annoying, shameful--and yet so fucking _wonderful_ , because the asshole wanted to share it with him. Didn't want to force it on him--just knew what buttons to push to make Yokozawa open himself up to new experiences, to see that there was more to life than pining after someone who was never his to begin with.

It was enough to make him want to scream in anger, passion, frustration, relief--a million emotions that Kirishima made him feel whether he wanted to or not.

His breath hitched in his chest, and he tugged Kirishima's hand away in irritation, ignoring the man's confused _Hey_ , and forcibly shifted their positions on the bed (nearly further humiliating himself by getting tangled in his own dropped pants) until they were facing one another, his hand broad and flat as he tentatively palmed Kirishima through his clothes. Kirishima immediately snapped his hand down to wrap around Yokozawa's wrist, patently not accustomed to such attentions, and Yokozawa's chest thrummed with the realization that for once he'd pulled one over on Kirishima. "Not exactly fair for me to be the only one being touched, is it?"

Admittedly, it was less about what was _fair_ and more a matter of pride that had him running two trembling fingers over the obvious outline of Kirishima's cock through the thin pants he'd been lounging around in when Yokozawa had found him. Kirishima's brows drew together in cautious confusion, hope evident just beneath the surface, and he licked his lips. "What, you want to touch me, too?" His tone carried that annoying amusing lilt, like he found this entire scenario the absolute height of hilarity--a notion his expression wasn't going a long way towards corroborating.

Yokozawa snorted roughly, dragging his fingers up the shaft and slapping the elastic hem against Kirishima's skin with finality. "If I let you have your way, we’ll never get through this." When Kirishima flinched again as he shoved his hand down his pants and gripped him properly, fingers not nearly as slick as Kirishima's own had been, he hazarded a cocky grin, "Well aren't we the sensitive one?"

Taking this as tacit permission, Kirishima replaced his own hand, fingers quickly finding their place again curled around Yokozawa's shaft. Their faces were close like this, and if Yokozawa turned his head to the side, they probably could have kissed--so he didn't. "Just a little taken with how bold you are," Kirishima huffed softly, lips curling up at their edges, and he punctuated the retort with a swipe of his thumb across the crown, renewing his strokes.

"If you'd rather have a blushing virgin--you'll have to look elsewhere," Yokozawa groused, forming a tight channel and giving a burst of energy to pull off a series of quick, sharp strokes just to teach Kirishima to watch his mouth.

Kirishima started, gasping softly and scrabbling with his free hand against Yokozawa's back, arm tucked under his own to grasp frantically at his shirt as he pressed their chests together. His voice was hot and strained in Yokozawa's ear. "I doubt I could find anyone else as pure-hearted as you, though."

A load of shit, to be sure, but Yokozawa couldn't deny the guy knew just what to say to make someone go weak-kneed, and he returned quickly and finally, "Then how about I make it so you can't spout any more mushy shit like that?"

A blanket of silence settled between them, the only sounds the soft _schlick_ of two hands working feverishly to bring each other off, each trying to bring the other to climax before himself in a show of power and prowess, bravado pushing them on as much as a desire for mutual pleasure. "God you're slow..." Kirishima complained lightly, and Yokozawa couldn't tell if it was a shot at his own attentions to Kirishima's cock or his orgasm's slow arrival.

Not bothering to clarify, Kirishima shifted further forward, pressing their abdomens together and bringing their cocks into alignment, stiff shafts slick with gel and precum glistening in the low light of the bedroom and brushing together with each harried inhalation. Kirishima tugged, rolling his hand to bring their strokes into concert as he worked both shafts together. " _Fuck_ , you're hard as a rock…" he observed, then added with a sardonic grin as he turned his gaze up to lock with Yokozawa's, "You trying to impress me?"

Yokozawa swallowed thickly, forgetting himself and letting Kirishima work their cocks himself. His lids fluttered as sensation swept over him, and he managed, "Depends...on if it's working or not," and when Kirishima's grin widened at this and he pressed in for a kiss, all tongue and lips and teeth and desperate need, Yokozawa didn't flinch, just opened his mouth and pressed back all the more insistently, beyond caring what Kirishima interpreted the action as.

It was official: Kirishima was a _damn_ good kisser--and it would've been fine just to leave things at that, had Kirishima's free hand, slick with baby oil, not dipped down between Yokozawa's spread legs, taking advantage of the distraction to tease his balls before pressing on to more virgin territory.

Yokozawa's breath caught in his chest, and he seized up. "Where the _hell_ do you think you're touching?"

"Don't stop stroking," was the infuriating reply, and he ran one finger in a tight circle, teasing and tempting in his refusal to do anything with it--but Yokozawa was having none of it.

He shifted his free hand around to grip the bicep of the offending arm and squeezed--tight. "If you want to keep those fingers, you'll keep them well away from whatever you're feeling for."

Kirishima pulled back, face drawn, and Yokozawa _loathed_ the look of utter amazement playing beneath the surface. “You...really don’t like it?”

"I don't...like being touched there..." he allowed through grit teeth, and while it would be a lie to say he'd never been touched there before, it was that much more the cold truth that no, not for anyone but Masamune could he stand to be so utterly open and defenseless beneath someone else, even someone as infuriatingly charming as Kirishima--and before the guy could make some quip that would kill the mood entirely, Yokozawa renewed his attentions to his cock, to _both_ their cocks, and dragged his free hand up to cup the back of Kirishima's head, burying his fingers in the shock of scraggly hair and pulling him close to swipe a tongue across lips that hung open in the barest representation of shock until Kirishima gave in, putting his mouth to much better use and quashing his babbling.

Kirishima blessedly withdrew his fingers--whether out of respect for Yokozawa's request or sheer terror that his tools of trade would be rendered useless were he to not comply--and instead renewed his efforts to bring them both to a swift and pleasurable conclusion, and it was only a few more practiced strokes before Yokozawa was embarrassing himself, crying out like a girl in tones he hadn't taken in _years_ and which would likely come back to bite him in the ass later. Kirishima was not far behind, and they spilled in concert across each other's cocks, hands, and bellies, sated but filthy and in sore need of a cold shower.

Yokozawa distracted himself from Kirishima's searching gaze by griping under his breath about the mess, casting about for a towel, even tissues, to mop up with, and when none could be found, he wordlessly slipped off the bed and shook his pants and underwear free to the floor, tugging his shirt up and over his head. If Kirishima objected to any of this, he said nothing to indicate as much, and Yokozawa chose his moment. "I'm borrowing your shower," he informed Kirishima shortly, and without waiting for permission, all but slinked out of the bedroom into the blessed safety of Kirishima's en-suite.

* * *

Hiyo returned a good hour later, just as the sun was dying in the west, and was flushed with excitement to see that Yokozawa had kept his promise, fresh from the shower and now manning the vegetable station, slicing up some of the eggplant he'd brought with him and nodding towards a colander in the sink with instructions for her to get started on a sack of potatoes.

He poured himself into dinner preparations, trying to ignore Kirishima's eye on him where he sat, still and silent, at the table, finishing his beer. Hiyo had been full of chastising when she'd spotted him nursing what she took to be a new can but had pursed her lips and relented when he assured her that it was only the same one he'd started before _Yokozawa-oniichan_ had dropped in.

The guy had claimed to not be so much as buzzed earlier, but Yokozawa's stomach still churned uncomfortably as he waited for Kirishima to blurt out why they'd both taken showers in the middle of the day--but the guy only made small talk while the two prepared dinner, prodding Hiyo for details about her earlier playdate and revealing nothing of his and Yokozawa's bedroom antics. Which was just as well, he told himself--there were just some things it wouldn't do to scar a young child with, especially one who looked up to Kirishima and Yokozawa as Hiyo did. He shuddered at the thought of her ever finding out what they'd gotten up to while she'd been off doing whatever it was little girls did on a Sunday afternoon.

"Oniichan?" He was jerked from his thoughts by Hiyo tugging on his apron. "I've finished the potatoes..?" He glanced back at the table--but Kirishima was gone, likely curled up on the living room couch seeing to some editing job or another while the pair prepared dinner.

He favored her with a gentle smile and shook his head. "I just can't keep up with you; what am I gonna do?"

She beamed and scooped up the colander, jogging over to the burnables basket and upending the peelings into the waste bin. "You can't daydream while you're handling a knife, Oniichan--it's dangerous! You'll wind up like Papa--" Her face lit up, and her grin turned devilish. "Did I tell you about that time?"

He quirked a brow and turned back to his eggplant slicing with renewed focus. "Don't think I've heard this one, but I'm all ears."

* * *

Dinner had been a rather mundane affair compared with the day Yokozawa had dealt with thus far, and when he pulled Hiyo's door shut, wishing her goodnight as he'd promised to do before he took his leave, he settled his head against the doorjamb and breathed a sigh of relief.

His meal sat heavy in his stomach, churning in an almost nauseating stew as he chewed over how best to take his leave so he could recover from this weekend. He was going to go gray before Kirishima at this rate, stress and frustration and confusion slowly but surely eating away at him bit by bit.

At length, he shuffled back into the living room and glanced around, but found only Kirishima's half-finished check on the low-slung coffee table. The distant hiss of water running in the kitchen drew him in, and he found Kirishima standing at the sink, rinsing off a plate Yokozawa had apparently missed in his post-dinner cleanup. "Ah, sorry..." he apologized reflexively; while he supposed Kirishima should've been damn appreciative for a delicious home-cooked meal to begin with, he did feel a pang of regret at leaving their kitchen in disarray more evenings than not and tried to clean up after himself as best he could.

Kirishima pulled the tap shut with a squeak, setting the still-wet plate to the side and instead mopping his hands dry with the dishtowel as he shifted around. "It's nothing; is she asleep?"

"She's in bed, at least," he clarified, and in the moment of silence that passed between them, he grew uncomfortably aware that they were alone again, more or less, and that he had next to no idea how to deal with the guy now. How did you speak to someone who both infuriated you beyond belief and filled your chest with pangs of longing--often at the same time--when most everything that came out of your mouth tended to fuck things up beyond recognition? How did you tell someone that they made you want to take a crowbar to their head as much as made you want to shove your hand down their pants? How did you say _thank you_ without opening yourself up to ridicule and derision?

He started, immediately on edge, when Kirishima pushed himself off from the counter, slowly padding over and raising a hand towards the living room. "Are you staying the night?" Yokozawa twisted around, following his gaze over his shoulder in mild confusion. "The guest room's just as you left it."

"Ah..." Yokozawa groped for a response; he couldn't stay here, he _couldn't_ \--not tonight, not after what they'd done, not when Hiyo was one room over, so _proud_ she'd done right by asking Yokozawa to 'talk to' her papa. "I...it's still early yet, I just...figured I'd better head home tonight. I've caused enough of a stir here as it is, and we've both got work in the morning."

Kirishima shrugged. "You left a suit here; it's cleaned and hanging in the closet. I even managed not to lose your socks in the wash."

The last comment took on Kirishima's familiar amused lilt, and Yokozawa couldn't help glancing back at him, warily relaxing his guard. "…A feat indeed."

"Well one of us has to work on making the other a suitable wife some day, and you seem pretty adamantly against the notion, so…" And then they were back at square one, the joke falling flat and simply reinstating the awkward barrier between them.

Yokozawa pursed his lips and nodded shortly. "...I appreciate the invitation, but I'd better leave now." It spoke to how drained he was, from _everything_ , that he didn't even bother to come up with some clever excuse as to why he was turning tail and fleeing.

Blessedly, Kirishima just nodded. "I'll walk you to the door, then." Cursing himself, Yokozawa returned a short nod; his nature had undone him yet again, and he hardly blamed Kirishima for no longer putting up a fight. The signals Yokozawa knew he was sending were loud, bright, blaring banners of _no_ , no he didn't want to sleep with Kirishima (but he could jerk the guy off? What the fuck was that?), no he didn't want to have a _relationship_ with Kirishima (because god forbid he open up to someone who actually gave a shit about him, body and soul), no he didn't want to _deal_ with this right now, because Sorata was still recovering and Masamune was still with Onodera--and _happy_ (he wasn't sure what hurt more)--and Kirishima was still as infuriatingly blameless in his intentions, only wanting to do right by Yokozawa, and that wasn't something he could accept just yet.

Yokozawa turned on his heel at the genkan, stepping back and down into his shoes and wincing slightly; the soles were wearing thin and the arch support had long since disappeared. When he glanced up again, Kirishima was there, nearly a head taller than him now where he stood at the step up into the apartment proper, and his expression was blank as he could fashion it but still tinged with a thin layer of confusion, disappointment, which hit Yokozawa like a kick to the gut. Hadn't he come here toting apology pastry to _stop_ Kirishima from feeling this way? Hadn't he made an honest effort to grow a pair because the guy deserved it?

He took a breath. "Kirishima-san, I..." but trailed off into nothingness, his mind as confused as the state of their relationship now, and he cursed colorfully. Was _nothing_ going to go his way today?

And then Kirishima reached out, slowly, and brushed his neck, gently drawing his fingers up the smooth line of exposed flesh to play in the short hairs that fell around his nape before exerting faint pressure and leaning forward to slit their lips together. It wasn't feverish or passionate, or booze-flavored or teasing, it wasn't a kiss Yokozawa had yet experienced from Kirishima, and he was shocked into giving in just by the sheer novelty, hand snapping up to cradle the back of Kirishima's neck in a mirror movement as he brushed a thumb just over the pulse point, feeling it fluttering beneath his finger. A tongue gently swiped over his own, dry lips sliding against his with the slightest pressure before pulling back with a soft huff of accomplishment.

Yokozawa supposed he must have had the most dazed expression on his face, glassy-eyed as he stared up at Kirishima, and he shivered--but thankfully didn't moan--when Kirishima massaged the back of his skull, bending down to bring their gazes up even. "Whatever you feel now, I didn't want you leaving without remembering that it means something to me now. This." He didn't need to elaborate on _this_ because Yokozawa was still reeling from its effects.

He swallowed thickly, searching for some witty response, but what came out was almost bitter. "So it didn't before, then?"

And this time when Kirishima smiled, it wasn't tinged with sadness or disappointment or anything but abject _fondness_ , and Yokozawa realized to his horror that he quite liked that. "I liked you before. Now I _like_ you." His smile grew then pinched and serious, and he added. "My love is deep, you know. I’ll _definitely_ make you happy.” As if his attentions were welcome now, as if this was a _given_.

Yokozawa shifted away, placing distance between them that was slowly but surely being whittled away. He couldn't help snorting at Kirishima's bold display of confidence, "Seriously?"

Kirishima drew up straight again, lifting a brow. "Have I _ever_ not been able to accomplish something once I’ve said I would?"

And this was Marukawa’s leading hit-maker, who brought to fruition everything he said he would despite being derided as being nothing more than a big-talker—if he said he’d do it, then there was no mistaking that he would."...I don’t suppose so," he grudgingly allowed, then turned to place Kirishima at his back, pressing down on the door handle to let himself out.

The smart move would have been to take his leave right then--to put force into his shoulder and step out onto the landing and regroup, rethink this situation in the clear light of day. Instead, he shifted around and locked eyes with Kirishima, gaze steady and remarkably clear-headed despite the display just now. "I won't run away; you don't have to do shit like that just because you're scared."

Tension visibly fled from Kirishima's shoulders, and his overall carriage lightened as his grin took on that familiar, infuriating quirk. "I'm not scared," he was quick to remind, then more soberly added, "...I just know how you think." He cocked his head, raking his gaze over Yokozawa from head to toe. "You're kind of an open book--booze or no."

Yokozawa's gaze flicked down to Kirishima's left hand, and the thin, visible white band where no ring lay now. He'd _known_ Yokozawa wanted nothing more to do with him, known that no good could come of making such a cheap gesture as that--as if Yokozawa was intimidated by the idea of a ring worn for show--and yet...he'd still done it. Because cutting away the last remnants of his old life, showing himself if no one else that something had changed, was _important_.

This wasn't just something he was doing for Yokozawa--not just some altruistic adventure for kicks and shits. _It means something me now_ , he'd said.

Yokozawa swallowed with some effort, and his body was moving before he gave it explicit permission, reaching out and pulling Kirishima forcibly down into the genkan, paying no attention to his confused squawking as he pressed their lips together again, his kiss as bruising and demanding as Kirishima's had been gentle and forgiving, before pulling away roughly, lips red and swollen. His voice was thick with some undefined emotion when he growled, one hand firmly cupping the back of Kirishima's head to steady their gazes. "Don't think you know me so well, cocky asshole."

And before Kirishima could prove Yokozawa right in the _cocky asshole_ comment, Yokozawa turned on his heel and stumbled out into the night.


	31. Safe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from #30

Yokozawa slumped into his chair with a tired huff, wincing at the creak of metal taking on more weight than it was gauged to support. He leaned back, ignoring the whine of the chair's joints, and closed his eyes for a long few moments--the last few moments of quiet respite before Henmi realized he was in from his rounds and--

"Ah, good morning, Yokozawa-san!"

\--jerked him back down to the cold plain of reality, where he still had a good six or more hours of work ahead of him before he could drag himself to the nearest train station and spend the ride home figuring out what he was going to scrounge up for dinner. The Kirishimas at least would eat well tonight, feasting on the leftovers of the previous evening, and Yokozawa toyed for only a brief moment's weakness with the notion of inviting himself over with some drummed up excuse involving Sorata. Nope--better to leave them wanting more than wear out his welcome.

He shifted his weight back forward, wiping a hand over his face, and offered a gruff, "G'morning," in response as Henmi trotted over, a sheaf of copies in one hand and a yellow sticky-note clinging to the thumb of the other, both held out for Yokozawa's perusal. He took the copies first, frowning. "Who the hell sent this?"

"We just received it from _Sapphire_." He leaned forward, peeking at the topmost line, and pointed. "See? Hashimoto-san."

"I can _read_ ," he grunted. "It was a rhetorical question." Hashimoto was one of the newer hires, fresh out of school and showing it at every chance she got--her latest attempt at a proposal worse than even Onodera's first had been when he'd joined the previous summer. He chucked the sheaf, clip and all, into the recycle box without another word, waving at Henmi to leave him be. "Forward me the message with the PDF attachment; I can't deal with much more of this shit."

Henmi hedged. "Ah--perhaps I should…?" But he straightened up with a meek nod at Yokozawa's sharp glance. "Of course. Oh--and this…" He held the sticky note out now, placing it gently on top of a pile of papers so that Yokozawa didn't have to snatch it from his fingers. "While you were out."

Without another word, he darted back to the far end of their desk clump, diving into his own work, while Yokozawa reached forward and took up the note, frown shifting from one of disappointment to one of discomfort.

_10:08 AM - Kirishima-san of Japun; requests return contact ASAP_

His stomach turned, and he quickly crumpled the note, tossing it into the little garbage pail beside his desk. If Henmi hadn't been sitting two desks away, he probably would've let his head slam down against the desk in frustration--could he not go twelve hours without having to deal with Kirishima and everything associated therein? Patently not.

With one hand running through his hair and the other reaching across a folder packed with sales figures for _Emerald_ 's latest issue, he picked up the receiver and cradled it between his ear and shoulder, rifling through his lower right desk drawer for an energy bar he remembered tucking away last week for just such an occasion. He hadn't had time that morning for a proper--

_"Kirishima speaking."_

"Ah--" Yokozawa shot up straight, glancing around the empty sales floor--most everyone else was in meetings or still off doing rounds at this hour--as if worried someone might hear them speaking. He quickly brought both hands up to clutch the receiver against his ear. "This is--"

 _"Oh, you're back early."_ The sounds of a busy department filtered over the receiver, and he caught snatches of conversation from the desks nearest to Kirishima's. _"Henmi said you'd be in around noon."_

"Well I'm here now," he returned flatly, not feeling up to conversation just at the moment. "What do you want?"

 _"To hear the lovely lilt of your voice, of course,"_ was the easy response, following by a muffled _No--no tell him we need three more pages by 5 PM today. Period. Tell him I said so._

Yokozawa ground his teeth and rolled his eyes, pitching his voice softer. "If you're just calling to harass me--"

_"I never call just to harass you; that's always a happy accident."_

" _Kirishima-san._ " He could feel the beginnings of a headache building in his skull and grimaced, voice coming out pinched and strained. "I don't get paid to field your inane commentary, so if you don't need anything urgently--"

_"Henmi said you were visiting the Kinokuniya Honten in Shinjuku?"_

Yokozawa released a mental curse, flashing a glare at Henmi who was hunched over his laptop, squinting at the screen and utterly oblivious to Yokozawa's irritation. "So what if I was?"

 _"You have the new figures for_ Japun _'s stuff, then?"_

Flicking a glance at his briefcase, he allowed, "Yours. _Emerald_ 's. _Sapphire_ 's. The whole lot."

_"You planning on sharing those any time soon?"_

"What the hell--" he started, then schooled his voice, "I just got in--and I'm not _obligated_ to hand-deliver you shipping manifests and sales logs for every store I drop by--"

_"Then I'll send someone down to--wait, no, I'll come down and get them from you."_

"The hell you will--you'll wait until they're properly compiled with the top sheet comparisons with previous quarters like all the other departments."

There was a whining, disappointed groan from the other end of the line. _"What's the use in sleeping with you then if I can't get--"_

" _KIRISHIMA-SAN,_ " he hissed furiously, fingers white-knuckled where they gripped the receiver tight.

 _"For fuck's sake, relax--it was a joke, no one's around. Oh--"_ He paused in thought. _"Unless it was the wording? 'Cause while I'll admit we haven't fucked yet, we've still--"_

_CLICK_

Yokozawa took a series of deep breaths after dropping the receiver back into its cradle. When the guy got going like that, obviously on some high Yokozawa neither knew nor cared about, it was best to just leave him to his own devices and deal with him when he was in a more sober frame of mind.

He drummed his fingers across the tabletop, glancing down at his briefcase leaning against the leg of his desk, and tuned out Henmi at the other end of their desk clump fielding an incoming call in his usual chipper register. He needed to start drafting that top sheet; annoying and needy as Kirishima could be at times, presuming too much on their relationship when calling in favors to light a fire under the collective ass of the sales department, these numbers needed to be in the hands of department heads as soon as possible.

Shit. Their _relationship_.

They shouldn't have done…what'd they'd done--they shouldn't have, but they had, and Yokozawa had to keep reminding himself that he hadn't made some monumentally ill-informed decision, that it had made all the sense in the world at the time, that Kirishima talked a good game and was _right_ , that he deserved to be loved back as hard and strong as he himself loved, and right now there was only one person offering.

He'd spent every waking moment since he'd left Kirishima's apartment the previous evening trying resolutely _not_ to think about the guy, what he'd told Yokozawa, what _Yokozawa_ had told _him_ , and how even now his mind was filled with nothing but thoughts of his thin lips, curling up in amusement at their corners, and the easy way he laughed at some idle comment Hiyo made or the genuine way he complimented Yokozawa's cooking, like he could think of no better life to live than one with the both of them in it. 

Thoughts like that stirred feelings within Yokozawa that he hadn't felt in a long time, and which frankly scared the shit out of him as much as tempted him. He'd never been _loved_ before, not really, truly, romantically, _fervently_ loved and pursued and forced to accept the fact that much as he tried to turn away those feelings, they were real and there and weren't going away, so Yokozawa could either accept them and cherish them and maybe return them even, or he could try to ignore them.

"Yokozawa-san. Kirishima-san's on line 2."

And ignoring them was patently not an option.

He grumbled beneath his breath and picked up the receiver again. "Yokozawa."

_"Hang up on me again and I'll march down there myself and chew you out."_

"You're less than a week out from the end of the cycle; you can barely spare the time to take a leak, I suspect."

_"Do not test me, Yokozawa Takafumi. You know not the great power sleeping within me."_

"I'm not giving the numbers to any of your gofers either. You can wait your turn just like all the others."

_"Come have lunch with me then and we can discuss it over a meal."_

"There's nothing to discuss. I'm starting on the top sheet right now; you'll have it by 5. Sooner if I can work in peace."

_"For fuck's sa--fine, forget the numbers. Still come have lunch with me."_

Yokozawa frowned, ready to hold the receiver out and gape at it. "What part of _you'll get it sooner if you leave me alone_ didn't you understand?"

 _"None of it. What part of 'come have lunch with me' didn't_ you _understand?"_

"None of it. But you'll notice I'm not agreeing."

_"And you'll notice I'm still asking. Is this the part where I graduate to harassing you?"_

Yokozawa rolled his eyes, flipping his laptop open and listening intently for the familiar sounds of it booting up. "I think you received early admission some time back. I don't have time for--"

_"If I have time, you have time."_

Flawless logic, as usual. "…Except you _don't_ have time," he reminded, irritated that he was less bothered about being hassled to have lunch with Kirishima and more that doing so would mean Kirishima spending at least an extra hour past quitting time hunched over his desk as the end of the cycle drew near.

A pause, and Yokozawa could _hear_ the triumphant grin in the voice crackling over the line, all confidence and unguarded pride. _"I'll be down at noon."_

* * *

"This is new," Yokozawa snorted, stirring his straight tea and listening to the melodic clink of ice against glass.

"Hm?" Kirishima spared him a passing glance, chin still propped up in one hand as he scanned the sidewalk just outside the window to his right, people-watching as they let their meals settle.

Yokozawa tipped him a small toast before taking a sip. "Getting a drink with you--and _not_ getting drunk."

Kirishima's eyes stayed trained outside the window, but his lips curled up into an amused grin, clearly enjoying himself. "Indeed," he offered in response, then added in a lower register, purely because he could, "I hope to enjoy _many_ a new experience with you in the future, Yokozawa-san."

The glass made a loud _clank_ as Yokozawa brought it back down to the table, startling their neighbors, and he flushed in shame at making a scene. Voice a growling threat, he leaned across to angle himself so his words didn't carry beyond Kirishima's ears, "No more of _that_. Not in public, asshole." He settled back, stirring his drink with his straw. "No one needs to hear that kind of innuendo while they're trying to have a meal."

"Oh?" was Kirishima's light response, and he shifted away from the window, favoring Yokozawa with his full attention now, and began to idly draw figures into the condensation collecting at the base of his glass, clearly in no rush. 

Yokozawa endured his stare for a few long moments, distracting himself with following the waitresses as they ducked in and out of the kitchen or casually eavesdropping on the conversations around them; he even at one point began to plan out the rest of his workweek, recalling that there was a department head meeting that he'd been asked to sit in on, for which he'd have to get Henmi to draw up some documents later--

" _What_?"

Kirishima just shrugged, unfazed, and crossed his legs beneath the table, taking great care to rake his foot along Yokozawa's slacks-covered calf. "Is it a crime to stare?"

"It's _rude_ , or didn't your mother teach you any better?"

"You've met my mother; you know that's not the case."

"Then I'll be sure to let her know her son's an inconsiderate prick the next time I'm over."

"Speaking of which--" He leaned forward, crossing his arms before him. "When _are_ you coming over again?"

Yokozawa's eye twitched, and he took a breath, shrugging ambivalently. "…I dunno. When I feel like it, I suppose."

"Well when do you foresee yourself _feeling like it_ next?" He cocked his head to the side and raised a brow. "Your cat's still got the run of my place, you realize."

"Is there some great rush for me to pick him up again?" He knew the irritation was rising in his voice--and how the hell could Kirishima justify so long a lunch break?--but he didn't really mind it just now.

Kirishima must have sensed he was pushing too hard, which was a rare feat for someone usually so very thick when it came to such matters, and he cooled his demeanor. "…Hardly. But you _did_ worry Hiyo, you know. Some reassurance that last night wasn't a fluke would be appreciated."

It was impossible to tell if he meant Hiyo, or Kirishima himself, needed the reassurance.

He took a draw on his tea as if it'd been a whiskey sour and not watered-down oolong. "…It wasn't." He flicked up a glance, hard but steady. "You don't have to keep probing for answers. I've already given you mine."

"Ah…" The tension visibly lessened in the set of Kirishima's shoulders, and he slumped back against the booth, carding a hand through his hair and snorting at himself. "…Sorry." Wiping a hand over his face and glancing back out at the street, eyes flashing about as he focused on passersby, he explained, "Sorry. It's just…it's been a while. Since I let myself think of someone like this. Since I wanted to." He shrugged to himself. "I think I'm maybe a little overeager."

The amusing image situated itself firmly in Yokozawa's frontal cortex, but he kept his features schooled and instead took another sip of his tea. "'A little' is putting it mildly." He sniffed superiorly. "And it's your own damn fault if you haven't gotten any in a while." With a roll of his shoulders, he added for good measure, "You're hardly unpopular, as I see it."

He could feel Kirishima's gaze on him again, sly and knowing, and he refused to meet it this time, instead frowning at the teasing note in his voice as he piped up with, "Jealous?"

Yokozawa's mouth was open, ' _hardly_ ' settled firmly on his lips, waiting to be launched at Kirishima's face an a valiant effort to wipe away any residue of smugness--and likely destined to fail--when he paused, took note, and reminded himself with no small amount of effort that he knew it wasn't true, and that Kirishima knew as well. Hell, most anyone at the tables around them could gauge their personalities in the blink of an eye and realize it wasn't true.

He pursed his lips and took a deep breath, releasing it slowly, and wet the tips of his fingers in the condensation of the glass, rubbing them together and enjoying the feel of cool flesh slipping over cool flesh. "…Just remember what you said."

Kirishima hadn't been expecting that; he'd probably been expecting the ' _hardly_ ' retort, or something similar, but the way he sat up straighter, the way his smile didn't quite reach his eyes as he tried to lightly prise from Yokozawa just what it _was_ he'd said, it all betrayed him.

Yokozawa spared him the humiliation of asking. "'If I know I'm loved, then there'll be no reason for me to be jealous." He raised a brow in challenge. "Or should I be the one worrying about flukes, here?"

Kirishima didn't bother to disguise his emotions this time, brows furrowing. "I--you know I wouldn't say…"

Yokozawa ignored him and reached for the bill, a crumpled receipt in a holder at the head of the table, and pretended to study it before moving to slide from the booth. "You make good on your word, and I'll remember to control myself."

A hand shot out, gripping him tightly--almost painfully--by the wrist, and Yokozawa frowned, giving a half-hearted shake to discourage the gesture before flashing a panicked glance around the restaurant in case some casual onlooker found their interactions of interest. "What the hell are you--"

"You--and control," was the cautious, almost awestruck observation, and Kirishima shook his head in wonder, grip loosening as he allowed Yokozawa to pull free. His fingers brushed sensitive pads over Yokozawa's flesh as he released the wrist, settling down to drum across the linoleum tabletop in amused boredom. "It's fine to lose it now and then, you know."

Which was easy to say for someone who'd never seen firsthand the kinds of disasters a guy like Yokozawa was capable of wreaking if he didn't practice a measure or three of restraint.


	32. Wait

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from #31

"You keep opening the refrigerator and the custard's never going to set," Yokozawa chided softly, shaking his head to keep his smile from waxing too fond. "Leave it and come help shell these beans."

Hiyori frowned but complied, giving the refrigerator one last longing look before skipping back over. She tugged at the apron tie to ensure it was still holding fast and climbed up onto the low stepstool butted up against the counter, setting her almost shoulder to shoulder with Yokozawa. He pushed a small bowl of bean pods in her direction, showed her how he was going about the task, and nodded his approval when she successfully mimicked him. "It's been forever since you came over for dinner; I just want everything to be perfect!"

Yokozawa snorted and cocked a grin. "Forever? I'm quite sure it hasn't been nearly that long."

"Well it _feels_ like forever," she amended, a pout working its way into her voice.

"A week feels like forever to you?"

"It does when you're not here!" Her shucking grew more furious as she poured herself into the task, little fingers flying over the crease in the pods to dump the beans into a new bowl, empty husks falling away into the burnable trash between them. "Papa's nowhere near as helpful with my homework, and if Grandma doesn't come over to help make dinner, then it's either takeout or my cooking--and you're way better than me!"

Yokozawa bumped her shoulder with his elbow. "You're no slouch in the kitchen, young lady. Don't be so rough on yourself."

"Yessir," she allowed, then glanced up at Yokozawa out of the corner of her eye, wary, before jerking her gaze back to her task as if she'd meant to say something then changed her mind.

It was pasta tonight--homemade ravioli Yokozawa had actually been almost _excited_ to try making, putting off the attempt until he had plenty of time to screw up and start anew, which left him standing here in the Kirishimas' kitchen at half-past-seven on a Friday evening, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and apron dusted with flour from kneading the dough. Kirishima would likely be another hour at least; the end of the cycle was an unforgiving time, but the veritable light at the end of the tunnel that was a restful weekend ahead would, hopefully, instill in him enough energy to make an early evening of it.

He'd bolted early from the office without a word--worried initially that Kirishima would needle him in text or in person about joining he and Hiyo for dinner, promptly squelching his plans to put on a bit of a show in the kitchen as he was doing, but no such message had come, from man or machine, and he'd managed to slip out with time aplenty, taking his time at the Santoku branch by Iidabashi station on his way to Kirishima's place. This was--well, not supposed to be a _surprise_ per se, but still; he knew first hand how shitty the end of a cycle could be, had seen Masamune through his fair share and caught Kirishima at bad moments over the past couple of months himself. This wasn't special--it was just…several birds with one stone, yes.

"'Kay, all done!" Hiyori announced in her chirping register, shaking the bowl and smiling at the satisfying rattle of the beans sliding against each other and the container. "Now what?"

Kirishima was slaving over his desk, taking care of work and bustling to meet deadlines, so even if it made Yokozawa feel just the tiniest bit like someone's _wife_ \--and despite any favors they might have exchanged in the past week, he was no one's wife--he could slave over his own station here, swallow his pride and slough off any insinuations as to ulterior motives, and do something that made him feel _good_ dammit. "Now, we cook."

* * *

" _Damn_ Yokozawa," Kirishima laughed, voice low and curling in its amusement as he leaned back in his chair and let his head loll up and behind, breathing in deep and releasing long. "That…was pretty damn delicious."

Yokozawa frowned, swirling his glass of wine and jerking his chin across the table. "I think there's someone else you should direct your compliments toward…?"

"Ah--but of course." He snapped his head forward and leaned across the table, elbow up and wrist supporting his chin as he gazed across the dirtied plates and empty pasta bowl, raising a glass to his daughter. "To Hiyo, without whom this fantastic meal could not have been possible."

Yokozawa snorted--it was rare for Kirishima to let himself get this tipsy in Hiyori's presence, but the guy had had a long day, and at least he hadn't tried to feel up Yokozawa under the table like he had that one evening at the izakaya in Ginza.

Hiyori, angel that she was, seemed unruffled, instead flushing with pride and reminding, "Oniichan did all the hard stuff! I just helped!"

"You made the custard pretty much on your own," Yokozawa returned, nodding to her own empty dessert bowl. "I hear your papa doesn't dole out praise lightly, so I'd take it if I were you."

"Geez, _Oniichan_ ," she chided with a huff, and Kirishima released a bark of laughter, muffling any subsequent giggles with another long sip of wine. "You're both horrible."

Yokozawa leaned forward, elbows on the table, and lifted a brow. "You sure you want to take that tone with me when you've been complaining all evening that you're in--what was it-- _desperate need_ of help with your fractions homework?"

She gasped softly and raised a hand to her mouth, flush deepening to one of shame, and she bit her lip. "Well--I suppose not…"

He _hmph_ ed lightly and leaned back, crossing his arms and jerking his head toward her room. "Go get set up in the living room; we'll take care of it tonight, that way you can enjoy your weekend without homework hanging over your head."

"Ah--" Kirishima cut in, as if suddenly remembering something, "Are you packed already? You ought to head over to Yuki-chan's soon yeah?"

Hiyori nodded, ponytail swishing from side to side with the action. "She said I can come over any time before 10--since she knew you'd be home late today."

"But you're packed?"

"It's _just_ overnight at Yuki-chan's, Papa; it'll only take a few minutes."

"Yeah but it's--" He glanced at his watch, frowning and squinting. "Nine--thirty? Almost?" He waved off any concern, though none had been directed his way. "Just do it tomorrow evening when you get back from your little museum excursion. Yokozawa'll still be here."

"I will?" "He will?" came twin responses of offended confusion and excited anticipation.

"'Course he will," Kirishima reminded firmly, then gestured towards the living room and the hallway beyond, where the bedrooms were located. "Get. We'll do the dishes."

"You mean _I'll_ do the dishes," Yokozawa grumbled as he started to clear the plates, adding a jerk of his own head to assure Hiyori it was fine for her to run along and pack for this trip she'd apparently had scheduled that Yokozawa distinctly had no memory of.

She scrambled to her feet, padding out of the kitchen towards her bedroom, and he watched fondly for a moment before he felt fingers wrap around his wrist as Kirishima tugged the plate from his hands. "No, I meant _I'll_ do the dishes. Go help her pack."

"What--?" Yokozawa glanced from the plate up to Kirishima's face, then back down to take in the table. "Hell no--you're drunk, you'll probably break something--"

"I'm not _drunk_ , asshole, I'm relaxing and enjoying dinner and telling you _I'll clean up_ , so go make sure she doesn't pack two shirts and no bottoms or something." He settled the plate he'd just prised from Yokozawa's grip back on the table, hands clapping about his shoulders and turning him around to direct him in the general path of the living room. "There's a good boy."

"She's _ten_. Not two. I'm sure she can pack her own overnight bag," he protested through grit teeth, but allowed himself to be steered without further issue, eventually plodding across the den with only a last backward glance to ensure Kirishima hadn't been all talk about 'not being drunk' before he drew up to Hiyori's room, knocking softly at her door. "Hiyo?"

After receiving a muffled _Come in!_ , he eased his way inside, glancing about to see how far she'd come with her thirty-or-so-second head start, and was pleased to see her sifting through a drawer, rifling through a rainbow assortment of tank tops. "You think it'll be cold tomorrow?"

"The weather said upper teens; better wear a jacket." She settled on a yellow one with a bright pink Hello Kitty appliqué stitched across the chest, gently settling it inside an overnight bag embroidered with her name in roman letters before darting over to her closet and sifting through a rack of several skirts. "Umm--should I be…doing anything?"

"Papa sent you in here?"

He scratched the back of his head--it felt odd, watching Hiyori dash about doing something so innocently _girly_ as throw together an outfit. Usually he was here to tuck in or give his goodnights; this was only going to get worse as the years passed, he knew, provided he was still around then. "I suppose to make sure you didn't keep Yuki-chan waiting." He frowned. "What're you _doing_ anyways? You never mentioned spending the night…"

"Oh." She shrugged. "They announced a class trip to an art museum--I forgot the name; Papa has a flyer--on Wednesday." Wednesday, as he'd been all but purposefully avoiding Kirishima all week. "Since we have to go together and the bus leaves the school early tomorrow morning, Yuki-chan's mama said I could spend the night tonight!" She finally settled on a skirt, all pleats and bright designs; middle school uniforms in two years would be a heavy yoke for her to bear, Yokozawa reflected idly. She paused, sensitive to his silence, and turned, kneading the material in her hands. "…I'm sorry for not telling you? It's just--you weren't here, and I forgot, and today we were cooking all evening, and I know I could have texted you and all, but--"

"Hey-- _hey_ ," he chided, tutting and striding across the room to settle at the edge of the bed and cup his hands at her shoulders, rubbing vigorously to calm her. "Easy, geez. I wasn't--getting on to you or anything." Hell, the thought alone set his stomach to turning; he wasn't her father, he wasn't even a legal guardian. He wasn't _anything_ to her--just an occasional freeloader her papa dragged home one evening. He had no rights to reprimand her in the least. "I was just curious--usually I have to feed you to get you to shut up." She blinked at him, and he registered that without the proper facial cues, his comment likely sounded a bit harsh, petulant. An inability to read people seemed to run in the Kirishima family. He cocked a crooked smile and tugged on her ponytail. "Are you finished packing?"

"Ah!" She scrambled about the room, ducking out for a moment to secure her toothbrush and toiletries, and Yokozawa shook his head in quiet amusement. He shouldn't get used to this--vowed that he wouldn't, just take what he was offered day by day--but it didn't stop him from reflecting that…yeah, he kind of _could_ get used to it. Already had, to some extent, or else he wouldn't feel like shit every time he spent more than a few evenings away-- _away_ , as if his own damn apartment weren't his rightful place--and his relationship with Kirishima notwithstanding, every time he walked through the door, the both of them had to go out of their way to make him feel like he belonged, which served only to remind him that he _didn't_ , that escalating things with Kirishima was only going to make it harder when things inevitably turned sour, and even if he didn't _want_ them to--really, seriously didn't _want_ them to, he couldn't shake the bone-trenched fear that they would. Eventually. And it wouldn't just be Yokozawa hurt and upended, it'd be Hiyori as well, and _fuck_ did Kirishima have any idea what he was getting into--?

"Oniichan?"

"Eh?" He blinked, bringing the room back into focus, and found Hiyori zipping up her overnight bag with a worried frown on her face, brows furrowed in hesitant concern. "Sorry, what?"

"I'm ready…?"

"Ah--" He glanced down at the bag, brushing his fingers over the name stitched onto the side. "Right--good." Shifting up and off the bed, he looped one hand under the bag's straps, offering gallantly. "Allow me, m'lady." She gave a weak giggle, smile not quite reaching her eyes, and he paused, half-turned towards the doorway. "…Hiyo?"

She licked her lips, obviously working herself up for something, and Yokozawa was about ready to drop the bag to the floor and take her by the shoulders, demand she spill whatever it was she'd been hedging around all evening, but he was headed off at the pass when she flung herself forward and wrapped her arms around him, squishing the overnight bag between them. "Thank you, Oniichan."

He made a few attempts at speech, voice coming out in a strangled, muddled whine, before his lips and tongue oriented themselves properly and he managed, "Hiyori…? What's--" He scoffed in forced amusement. "It's just a few doors down; it's not even heavy."

She shook against him, still squeezing with all her might as she brushed off his attempt at lightening the mood. "Thank you…for fixing Papa."

"…What?" It wasn't that he hadn't heard her; he just wasn't sure he'd _understood_ her.

She turned her head to the side, refusing to look up and meet his gaze, and her voice was soft and small. "I know…I know that Papa really likes you, Oniichan. He _really_ likes you, likes you as much as I like you. So just--I know that even if people love each other, they don't always get along, and it doesn't mean they don't still care, but whenever you and Papa fight, even if Papa's the one who was stupid and wrong--'cause that's probably what happened--" _No it's not_ , Yokozawa wanted to chide, but he held his tongue. "Even so--it just…it makes me sad, somehow. Because…because I want him to be happy. And he's _always_ happy when he's with you." She somehow found the strength to squeeze tighter, and it must have been siphoned from her voice, because she grew even quieter. "So…even if he says something stupid or makes you angry, forgive him? He doesn't mean it, I _know_ , and just--"

"All right."

"Eh?" She pulled back, shock drawing her gaze up to meet Yokozawa's, and he took the break in her death grip around him to squat down, nearly eye level with her now.

"I said--all right. You make a very convincing argument."

Her brows pulled together again, wariness dancing just beyond her gaze. "…Just like that?"

"He's not a bad guy; no offense, but I don't come over just to see you. He's different outside of work, so it's nice to see him in another environment." He pursed his lips. "But you're right in that it'll be _quite_ a task."

She brightened a hair, starting to flush as she felt him come around. "You won't--stay away again? For a long time, like before?"

And before he could phrase his response appropriately diplomatically, he was already blurting out, "I won't. I promise." Somehow it didn't make him want to strangle himself as much as he'd worried it would.

She reached forward again, giving him a proper hug this time, before pulling back and casting about the room for any last-minute forgotten items, and when she seemed sufficiently satisfied she'd packed herself up properly, she gave a nod and made for the door, not even a backwards glance to ensure Yokozawa was trailing after her, every inch her father's daughter.

* * *

"Oi."

"Hnng…?"

"If you're going to sleep, do it in your bed." Yokozawa tutted softly, frowning at the papers scattered half on Kirishima's lap, half on the sofa, a red pen dangling from a relaxed grip and about ready to drop to the floor. Sometime between when he'd left to escort Hiyori to Yuki-chan's place and now, Kirishima must have finished the dishes and had decided that sure, tonight, halfway drunk and on the heels of one hell of a cycle, was a great time to work on a manuscript. "Fucking editors-in-chief, you don't know when to give it a rest," he grumbled, reaching for the papers to try and restore some semblance of order.

Kirishima rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes, shaking his head. "Shit. I fell asleep."

"Amazing powers of observation," he scoffed in response, casting about for a clip to hold the panels together. Kirishima could properly order them later when he wasn't dead on his feet. "What the hell are you still doing up anyways? Can you even _see_ straight at this point?"

Kirishima snorted, hands falling away as he stared up from under lidded eyes. "I see you. That's all I care about really." And Yokozawa's hackles immediately stood on end, suddenly conscious of them being the only two bodies left in this rather large apartment for at least another twelve hours--but if Kirishima intended to capitalize on their privacy, their first moment alone in nearly a week, their first chance to address… _this_ , he made no such move, instead closing his eyes again and settling his head back against the couch cushion.

Yokozawa's frown deepened, taking on an edge of irritation, and he reached for Kirishima's wrist, intent on tugging him to his feet and at least guiding him in the general direction of his bedroom. Tucking into bed was only a service Yokozawa intended to offer to Hiyori; at least he could be fairly certain she'd let him leave after the deed was done.

But in a flash, Kirishima's hand whipped around, and long fingers threaded around Yokozawa's wrist, holding him fast. Eyes still closed, he murmured, "Sit with me..."

"Hah?" He tugged, more for show of protest. "You're practically the walking dead right now, you realize? Get your ass into bed, or I'm not going to be responsible for--"

"Just shut the fuck up and _sit_ , geez." No irritation, he hadn't even raised his voice, but Yokozawa still mentally stood up and took notice, grudgingly settling down onto the cushion beside Kirishima without further prodding. It grated, the way Kirishima could so easily play him--Yokozawa could bellow and puff out his chest all he wanted, but in the end, he was still slave to Kirishima's whims. Maybe some part of him subconsciously, deep down, knew he'd wanted everything they'd done, _everything_ , and liked to jolt his limbic system into playing along when his conscious self grew overly contrary. Which was a lot of the time.

Slowly, far more slowly than he would have liked--he hated being the one always on edge, the one always _worrying_ ; he wanted Kirishima to worry some too, show a little color in that cool visage--he felt his muscles relax, closed his eyes and took deep, slow breaths. Processed the sensation of Kirishima's warm bulk next to him, pressing down on the cushion beside him, and tried to just…understand it, accept its presence.

"I know…you won't stay." A pause, and Yokozawa's eyes slowly opened again, the room coming back into sharp focus as his breathing elevated a tic. "Even if I asked you to--you wouldn't. Though I won't pretend to understand why." And Yokozawa violently beat down the impulse to retort that _I would if you pressed hard enough_ because what the hell way was that to advance a relationship--even if it was true? "So just, let me have this for a few minutes."

He didn't respond, strained to avoid giving any indication that he'd even _heard_ Kirishima, and worked instead on forcing himself back into that calm, collected box he'd been working from only a moment ago. He could do this--they could take this slow, steady, or maybe nowhere at all. Kirishima wasn't a jerk--had been maybe a little (a _hell of a lot_ ) forward before, but he'd done things right. He'd said all the right things, touched all the right places physical and otherwise, and Yokozawa didn't regret it, not deep down, not in that place inside of him that prodded him into action when his logic centers stalled. No, Kirishima wasn't a jerk or an asshole or a dick or any of the other colorful names Yokozawa laid upon his head; he was just a guy. A guy with a ten-year-old daughter and a note on a very nice, very spacious apartment in central Tokyo who happened to have a thing for a coworker who happened to have a thing back for him.

He swallowed thickly and took in a slow, deep breath, focusing his gaze at a point on the far wall in a desperate attempt to soothe his nerves. "…What do you want from me?"

It was a fair question. It wasn't loaded--had no traps or triggers or hidden promises or threats. It was just a simple, curious question intended to clarify the field, light a path from one to the other and give form to the distance between them. For whether it was a few mere steps, a hand reaching out and being clasped in turn, or leagues of dark, muddled forest that maybe they could get through, _maybe_ , some day but was it even worth it?--Yokozawa didn't want to move, couldn't move, until he knew _what_ it was.

Moments ticked by--and it felt like forever, but was likely only a few interminably long minutes, and Yokozawa half wondered if Kirishima had fallen asleep again, cocking his head to the side to glance out of the corner of his eye--

"…What can you give me?" Yokozawa's breath caught in his throat. "We'll go from there." And released.

...Why did he have to ask all the _hard_ questions? Why couldn't he just lay open his demands, be clear and succinct and straightforward as he was in any print-run decision meeting and say _this or nothing_ , so that maybe Yokozawa could beat him down to something more reasonable? Why did Yokozawa have to sit here and make the first move, be the one making unreasonable offers, lower than were logical because Kirishima was supposed to challenge him to a respectable figure and they'd go from there? Except this time, this way, Kirishima wouldn't put up a fight. It wouldn't even be _fun_.

Yokozawa cleared his throat softly and shifted forward, weight transferring to his knees, down his shins, until he was standing in place, focus still far ahead on that point on the wall because if he moved it, if he wavered, he was going to fall. He licked his lips and reached up to his throat, forefinger and thumb curling in, burrowing under the silk material of his tie and tugging gently with one hand while the other teased at the topmost buttons of his y-shirt. He didn't look down at Kirishima; he didn't have to--the man's gaze was locked on him like a missile, it was hard to ignore. 

"Then..." he allowed slowly, finally tugging the tie free and gently folding it into thirds, "...I can give you a good night's rest." And without further explanation or elaboration, he turned on his heel and stepped into the darkness of Kirishima's bedroom. It was not seduction or solicitation, there was no invitation to exchange sexual favors--and thick though Kirishima might be on some points, Yokozawa did at least trust that he would understand what was and was not being offered here, right now.

Behind him, he heard the soft rustling of papers being shuffled, then the creak of the wood paneling on the floor as Kirishima followed behind. "I'll take that."

Yokozawa smiled to himself in the darkness, crossing the threshold; after all, they'd slept together once before without incident. Surely they could manage this one more time.


	33. Believe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from #32

Yokozawa did not rouse slowly, as a rule. He'd never had to fight his way into the world of the living or fail to remember what he'd done the previous night (well, all right, just the _one_ time, and all the trouble he'd had to deal with since then had gone a long ways to ensuring that he never allowed himself to sink so low again), so when his eyes popped open, blinking several times in quick succession to bring the room into focus, he was not surprised to find the warm, beige walls of Kirishima's room staring back at him, the morning sun throwing long beams onto the floor where it streamed in through the thin curtains that led out onto Kirishima's balcony.

He _was_ surprised, though, to feel a wall of heat pressing into his bare back, smooth skin brushing over his spine, shoulder blades, obliques, and a very plump, hard cock nestled at the cleft of his ass, not demanding or probing, just _there_ , and not going away.

He closed his eyes again; maybe he wasn't quite awake yet--maybe _Kirishima_ wasn't quite awake yet. People didn't just spoon up against others in the dead of night without reason, after all--but then again, people didn't just climb into bed to platonically sleep with others they were in a strange limbo of a relationship with either, so he supposed he was partly to blame for any lack of clarity as to what was and was not okay on those nights they shared a bed together (not that there were going to be too many--or any--more of those).

If he didn't shove Kirishima back to his side of the bed in the next few moments, though, they were going to have a rather awkward morning, and he squared his shoulders and schooled his features--

"You snore."

Yokozawa blinked, processing the groggy, irritated comment, muffled against his skin where Kirishima's lips fluttered against his nape. A finger lightly brushed down his side, from ribs to hipbone, and he shuddered in place, growling, " _What_ was that?"

He expected--hoped--Kirishima to pull away, met with the usual bite and ferocity compounded with morning grumpiness, but he only received in return that infuriatingly amused lilt, repeating, "You _snore_ ," as he ran a finger under the hem of Yokozawa's boxers, snapping the elastic tightly against his skin. "We'll have to do something about that if we're to sleep together…"

"I offered to sleep--and _only_ sleep--here out of the goodness of my heart; if you're going to bitch about it, I'll be glad to never offer such services again." And _fuck_ , why did it have to come out sounding all… _flirtatious_ , like second and third and fourth times were already on the table, only to be removed if Kirishima _didn't_ play his cards right? Who the fuck wanted to sleep with someone and just _sleep_ with them? This was…this couldn't happen again. Not without--some serious defining of boundaries. Which would require they _talk_ about whatever this was. And that was a tall order.

He shifted on the bed, tried to roll over onto his back and get Kirishima to stop spooning against him, but the guy just brought his free hand up and under Yokozawa's arm and held on fast, pressing his face into the base of his neck and breathing in sharply. "What the--get off me, you--"

"You were right," he muttered, just loudly enough for Yokozawa to hear, and his grip relaxed, palms sliding warm and broad over Yokozawa's chest, thumb flicking lightly over a nipple but without further attention that Yokozawa wasn't sure relieved or irritated him in the end.

"…Sounds like me. But--about what in particular?"

He could feel Kirishima smiling against his skin--and for once, his first instinct wasn't to pull away or shrug his shoulder in annoyance but to instead relax the tension strung through his body and let the laziness of the moment wash over him. "You did give me a good night's sleep," Kirishima reminded simply, punctuating the statement with a soft, dry kiss at the top of his spine, the _smack_ of his lips against skin barely audible.

"Oh," Yokozawa responded dumbly, trying to will his mind to process everything that was going on at once, the moment simultaneously slow and languid and unhurried but in turn battering him on all fronts, lips and fingers and Kirishima's morning wood, and sure _none_ of it was particularly pressing at the moment, the guy wasn't _trying_ to unconsciously seduce Yokozawa--he hoped--and he understood this, he _did_ , which was the only thread of sanity keeping him from whipping round and shoving a knee into Kirishima's solar plexus. "You're uh…welcome, I guess."

Kirishima chuckled at this, humming in approval, and Yokozawa bit back a _what's so damn funny?_ because he could already see the argument playing out in his head. There was no need to endure it twice. But then the humming of approval graduated to open-mouth kissing the back of his neck, which was accompanied by real, _calculated_ brushing of fingers over a nipple and all right--that cock was definitely stirring to life and executing mock, clothed thrusts and--

"What the _fuck_ do you think you're doing?" He punctuated the question with a tight grip, almost crushing in its intensity, around Kirishima's wrist, and all attentions immediately ceased. The sharp little hitch of breath from behind him told Yokozawa he'd successfully gotten the guy's attention, but he didn't loosen his hold an iota.

"What?" Kirishima's voice was strained, but he still managed to sound like a smug ass. "Your mama never gave you the puberty talk…?"

"Fuck you," he snapped, releasing the hand and shoving it away, granting Kirishima lead and daring him to try such a bold move again. "That's got nothing to do with you necking and poking me with your dick." He punched the pillow beneath his head instead, tensing his shoulders.

"Doesn't it?" was the sly response, ostensibly innocent but laced with a dangerous current of flirtation, and the hand he'd only just recently released snaked around, over Yokozawa's hip, to brush light and teasingly across the front of his boxers--

\--and Yokozawa practically rolled off the side of the bed, catching himself gracelessly before he fell to the floor in a pile of flailing limbs and quickly righting himself, glaring down at Kirishima, who stared back blankly for a moment before snorting inelegantly at the display. "Now that was just-- _hey_."

Yokozawa ignored his protests and stomped around the far side of the bed, being sure to keep a healthy distance between himself and Kirishima, but it turned out to be unnecessary, for the guy made no effort to try and wrangle Yokozawa back onto the mattress, instead flopping down onto his back spread eagle, staring up at the ceiling and scoffing at the melodramatics. "This is ridiculous."

Yokozawa kept his back to the wall, casting about the room for his pants--skulking around in nothing but his boxers in the Kirishimas' apartment, even if Hiyo was safely tucked away in another block of the building, just felt _wrong_ on some level. "You're one to talk," he sniped.

"How is it," Kirishima continued, ignoring the barb, "that I've gotten to sleep with you twice--but not fuck you _once_?" He shifted up onto his elbows, raking his gaze over Yokozawa--and the way his eyes rested for just a hair longer on the midsection did not go unnoticed. "Is that how you prefer it, then? You'll sleep with people who don't give a shit about having a relationship with you, but the minute that's on the table, sex is _off_?"

Yokozawa bent at the waist, piecing through a pile of unfamiliar clothing and growling to himself when he realized it was all Kirishima's--he didn't _remember_ being so haphazard with his preparations for bed the previous evening--and groused, "Nothing's on the table. Not sex, not a relationship. You were tired, and I offered to sleep with--"

"God _dammit_ , Yokozawa," Kirishima laughed dryly, the curse lost in a chuckled groan as he attempted to reconcile the situation. He flopped back down, wiping his face with both hands. "I thought I'd made it pretty clear what I wanted--and you seemed pretty well on board with the idea, last I checked. What the hell are we doing if not-- _something_ resembling a relationship?"

Yokozawa stretched up straight, gaze directed off to the side as Kirishima's plea washed over him; it wasn't fair, doing this. It wasn't fair to share his bed, offer him companionship, be _part_ of his life…and still put up walls. It wasn't fair to Kirishima--and it wasn't fair to himself. Kirishima was diving in headfirst without a thought to how deep the water was--which was fine, that was his prerogative.

Yokozawa just didn't like being dragged along with him.

He needed time--time to assess things, time to get his head straight on his shoulders, time to weigh and balance and maybe, _maybe_ , if things settled out properly, Yokozawa could give himself over to this, whatever was between them, body and mind and sure, why the hell not-- _heart_.

"…You've got that furrow in your brow again."

Yokozawa blinked, unthinkingly locking gazes with Kirishima and then mentally cursing himself--he tended to find himself being talked into things he wasn't comfortable with when he allowed himself to do that. "What?"

Kirishima was still lying spread eagle, a picture of laziness and lethargy, but he had his head cocked to the side, expression defeated. "I'm not saying you have to have sex with me or I don't want you--I told you my love is deep; I'm not gonna be thrown off just because you have some hangup about fucking--"

"I _don't_ have any-- _hangup_ ," he was quick to remind, immediately regretting it at Kirishima's calculated lift of a brow.

"…Whatever. I'm just saying--I don't…need anything from you. I _want_ things from you--because seriously, have you seen yourself? And the other day, that was pretty nice, and I'm not just saying that because I haven't gotten laid in a while, so--" He cut himself off at Yokozawa's harsh glance. "…The point is, I just…I don't want to be responsible for… _that_." He pointed to his own forehead, finger pressing in the furrow between his brows that he forced in a parody of Yokozawa's typical mien.

Yokozawa's frown deepened in response, until he realized this was exactly what Kirishima was playing at, and he made efforts to school his features, trying not to be obvious about it and failing. "…It's not your fault," he offered weakly, but Kirishima just snorted and rolled over onto what had been Yokozawa's side, putting his back to Yokozawa.

"Don't tell me--' _it's not you, it's me_ '?"

And that was about all Yokozawa could take this early in the morning. He dropped the socks he'd managed to track down back onto the floor and strode forward, crawling slowly back into the bed and settling down just behind Kirishima, propping himself up on one elbow and staring at the back facing him.

"Fine, I won't tell you that--even though it's true." No response, and he rolled his eyes. "…Why do you have to be so damned frustratingly _level-leaded_ at times like this?" He ducked his head and snorted in derision at himself. "…You're never going to get anywhere waiting for me this way, you know."

Kirishima's shoulders shifted in a shrug. "I'm a patient man with a hell of a lot of self-control, as I feel I've demonstrated."

Yokozawa pursed his lips, picking at a thread unravelling from the pillowcase at his side. "Maybe you should take your own advice then and ditch the self-control now and then."

"And send you into a snit like now?" He scoffed, no mirth in his voice. "I'll pass, thanks."

Yokozawa wiped a hand over his face and shifted onto his back, staring up at the ceiling and trying to count the divots before he spoke again, measurably calmer. "You knew what kind of person I was when you took me in that night," he reasoned. "If I was too much for you to handle…you should've just left me be. You reap what you sow and all that shit."

A pause. "…I knew exactly what I was getting into. You talk about it like I somehow don't want you now. _My_ wanting _you_ isn't the issue here--"

"If you think any of this is because I don't _want_ you, you're a royal fuck-up at reading--"

He fell silent--because wasn't that always the issue with this guy? Didn't he _always_ fail to read Yokozawa properly? It was like Yokozawa was written in some foreign language--he kept going on and on about Yokozawa being an open book, but if the words on the page didn't make an ounce of sense to you to begin with, then what was the use in walking around with your heart on your sleeve and expecting the people you bore it for to _notice_?

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Kirishima rustling about in the sheets, pushing them down and away, shifting one leg off the mattress to shuffle off to the shower--and he seemed so far away in every sense, the expanse of the bed stretching far and that gap growing by the second, each tick of the clock on Kirishima's bedside table placing more distance between them that Yokozawa wasn't entirely confident could be recovered, not after this, not unless he said something, _did_ something to prove that--that this was just his _fine fuck yes_ hangup--not a hangup with sex so much as--

He snapped an arm out, fingers brushing light but insistent over Kirishima's bicep and curling into a grip as he tugged to pull him back--and Kirishima froze, not moving an inch. He awkwardly shuffled over, letting his hand trail down the forearm, obliques, cloth-covered hip in a poor imitation of Kirishima's own earlier attentions, movements thick and dull and unpracticed and leaving everything feeling entirely too _forced_ \--forced, but necessary. Vital, just now.

He pressed his chest up flush against Kirishima's back, immediately conscious of just how _aware_ the guy was, his heart thudding at a rapid thrum that reverberated through Yokozawa's own chest, setting their beats in rhythm. He settled his face at the base of Kirishima's neck, breathing in deeply and catching the soft whine building up in the throat flushed beneath his attentions.

Fuck, the guy was getting turned on beyond comfort and he'd barely even _touched_ him--which was consequently getting Yokozawa worked up, too. He could feel the familiar heat pooling in his groin, nagging urges insistent and demanding, pressing him to grip and grab and shove and thrust--hand, mouth, ass, it really didn't matter just at the moment, he'd realized--and he slipped his hand around to cop a feel, steeling himself to be shoved away with the same ferocity he'd shown earlier. He deserved it after all.

"Shit, Yokozawa--don't--" Kirishima started, strained and desperate, and Yokozawa's stomach lurched in selfish disappointment as he stilled his attentions, "--I can't let you--it's not fair--" But then he was taking Yokozawa's hand in his own and guiding it back to where his cock was stiffening again in his shorts, his words and actions at odds as he wrapped Yokozawa's fingers around the straining outline of his erection, twisting his upper body around as his lips sought out Yokozawa's own. "Why--?"

"…I told you before--don't think you know me so well." He refused the kiss, instead pushing his face into the back of Kirishima's head, laying an open-mouthed love bite at his nape and relishing the desperate gasp Kirishima favored him with in return.

It must have been a satisfying response, for Kirishima's grip grew more sure, fingers threaded through Yokozawa's own palming his own cock, and he began to shift his hips in mock attempted thrusts, each backstroke sliding against Yokozawa's own cock and working him up to fever pitch. If someone didn't take a stand, they were the both of them going to dirty their boxers--and the sheets, likely--and Yokozawa had no change of clothes with him, so--

"Fuck me."

The strength left Yokozawa's limbs, and his grip went limp, prompting Kirishima to repeat in nearly a _whine_ , " _You_ …fuck _me_ , then." His fingers around Yokozawa's own tightened almost painfully, and he was distantly aware that Kirishima was trying to stave off an impending orgasm with the action. "I don't mind…so if you have some hangup or whatever…it's fine. Just--this isn't enough, so please, just--" And holy shit, had they sunk so low that Yokozawa needed to be _talked into_ being intimate with someone he cared about, really romantically _cared_ about? Was he really that screwed up? Was he _that_ pathetic at making his feelings clear? Was Kirishima _that_ thick?

This wasn't about sex or getting off or anything physical, it was about making ties, forming bonds, and maybe for Kirishima that was the way to go--it was certainly easy enough to let yourself go that way, to just link bodies and ride the wave of pleasure and deal with untangling yourselves in appropriate respects after it was all said and done.

He pulled his hand away, shaking off Kirishima's grip--he knew from experience it was hard to listen to reason when you had a warm, insistent hand jerking you off. "What makes you think you have to fuck me to keep me from leaving again?"

The words hung between them for a long beat of silence, and Kirishima shifted in bed--but only to sit up, twisting around with one leg hanging off the mattress and the other tucked beneath himself as he stared down at Yokozawa. "What makes you think that's the only possible reason I could have for wanting to fuck you?"

Yokozawa frowned, but the furrow stayed shallow, his conflicting emotions keeping it at bay, and when Kirishima reached out to touch him, fingers light and delicate this time in a way that Yokozawa should have probably suspected they could be but hadn't really expected--he was all the time learning new things about this guy, finding new sides to him to explore, and not even appreciating how damn lucky he was that he got to witness it at all.

Kirishima bent down, back arching upward as he braced his free hand to support himself, leaning in and hovering just over Yokozawa's lips with thumb and forefinger crooked loosely around his shaft through the boxers, slow and languidly tugging in a hypnotizing rhythm. "I'm not above begging, Yokozawa-san--but I'm not accustomed to having to ask three times for someone to fuck me either." He darted a tongue out to flick over Yokozawa's lips in temptation. "And--please, don't ask me something like _what do you want from me_ right now, because I've got a great answer ready for you, but if you press for it just now I'm probably going to say something embarrassing like _your cock_." And the asshole was _smiling_ now, which was just not appropriate at all, and so Yokozawa jerked his chin up and sealed his lips over Kirishima's, thrusting a tongue in and sucking sharply before gentling himself, timing the presses and draws of his kiss with the slow, lazy rhythm of Kirishima's hand on his cock.

"It was never a problem of wanting you, you know," he muttered against Kirishima's flushed lips, sparing them a moment. "I just…come with a lot of baggage, I told you."

Kirishima's hand slowed, then stopped--but didn't move. "…I'm not exactly _unburdened_ myself."

"Yeah…" he allowed softly, then with a show of strength, he heaved himself upright and slung his far leg over like he was mounting a horse until he'd knocked Kirishima over onto his back, satisfied with the labored huff of air the guy released in surprise, blinking up in shock at the smooth, swift shift of power as Yokozawa straddled him. "…We're fucking perfect together," he breathed, voice nearly a growl, and he dropped his hips to slide long and slow, pressing tight up against Kirishima until the felt the electric connect when their cocks brushed, flimsy cotton and polyester poor barriers to sensation.

He'd never expected Kirishima to be passive in bed--it just didn't fit him--but Yokozawa was still surprised at how eager the guy seemed once it was tacitly agreed upon that this was happening, this was going to _happen_ , and that he was allowed to be fucking ecstatic and on-board with the idea, that Yokozawa wasn't going to back out--and that he didn't need to be goaded into it either, because while it wasn't as if he didn't still have reservations, he just…wanted this. Wanted Kirishima to know he did--that he didn't have stupid hangups, that he wasn't sure what they were but that he was _trying_ to figure it out, wanted to be as sure and confident as Kirishima seemed to be, and right now this was all he could offer but it didn't have to be the be-all-end-all.

And sure, some voice at the back of his head reminded him that things hadn't exactly worked out the _last_ time he'd let himself be talked into sleeping with someone who just really wanted to fuck and forget everything else right then, but…Kirishima was different, he maintained. _This_ was different, and he knew if he voiced these concerns, Kirishima would talk himself hoarse trying to convince him as much, not because he wanted to get laid (but that would surely light a fire under his ass) but because he _wanted_ Yokozawa, body (of course) and soul and everything in between, and he would still want him tomorrow and the day after and a month after and a year after because what they had wasn't mutual consolation and base attraction ferried along into some pitiful excuse of a relationship by booze and the high of a moment but actual, real _feelings_ and respect and something else that was still too new and unfamiliar for Yokozawa to feel all that comfortable addressing it, but…something that he also knew was just going to get bigger, more important, going to engulf him and infuse itself through his whole being until he couldn't get rid of these Kirishimas if he _wanted_ to. And that was kind of scary, yeah--even the Wild Bear of Marukawa was allowed to be scared now and then--but nothing ventured, nothing gained, so here he was.

Kirishima was having a rough time of it beneath him, trying to do three things at once and managing none of them terribly effectively, and Yokozawa allowed himself an upwards curl of his lip as his jaw dropped for a deeper kiss, executing another sharp roll of his hips that had Kirishima gasping up into his mouth, fingers scrabbling for purchase over Yokozawa's broad back. "You…gonna rut against me all morning, or…?" he eventually managed, tilting his head to the side to avoid being dragged under for another kiss, and he dropped a hand between them to brush his fingers temptingly over Yokozawa's stomach.

Yokozawa glanced off to the side, gaze growing distant as he realized there were _things_ they needed to take care of before the fun bit started, and it'd been a while since he'd done this particular deed--plus this wasn't his apartment, it wasn't his bedroom, it wasn't his bed; he didn't have the first clue if they even _had_ the stuff they needed--

Something flicked his forehead. " _Fuck_ your wrinkles," Kirishima almost laughed, then twisted beneath Yokozawa to flap an arm in the general direction of his bedside table. "Top drawer; the baby oil from before. Best we've got right now, unless you feel like putting this off…?"

He chose to neither take the bait nor respond to it. "And what about a...?"

"I'm out," was the flippant reply. "And I'm man enough to outright _say_ I don't feel like putting this off--" The barb pricked, but didn't cut deep, and Kirishima's expression didn't seem to indicate he'd meant it as anything more than his usual teasing, "--but I don't feel like messing around with cleanup, so you'd better pull out." He added with a glint that made it difficult to tell if he was still teasing, "Or I'll rip your dick off."

One brow lifted at the veiled threat, Yokozawa silently shifted to the side, huffing as he angled himself to try and reach the bedside table without pulling something, and eventually laid his hand over a small travel-sized bottle of baby oil, half-empty.

"You know what to do with that, right?"

Yokozawa glanced over to find Kirishima staring up at him, the picture of debauchery as he laid flat on his back, arms splayed at either side and lips plump and red from making out. He frowned at the comment and all it implied. "You'd better hope I do."

Kirishima just chuckled darkly, reaching out the hand nearest to Yokozawa to brush over one shoulder and guide him back over. "Too bad. It might've been fun teaching you…"

Snorting derisively, Yokozawa settled back into _seiza_ , legs tucked up underneath himself as he clenched the bottle tight in one hand, waving at Kirishima's bottom half. "Off."

"Such seduction; be still my beating heart."

"You want seduction, find someone else. Otherwise you'll take what you've got."

"And what have I got?" His remarks were coy and demure even as he arched his back to work his boxers off, shimmying out of the material and dropping them off the side of the bed where they fell with a soft rumpled poof. "You'll want to take yours off as well, I suspect."

He tried to keep his gaze from drifting to Kirishima's cock as soon as it was exposed. Quite unsuccessfully. "I'll take mine off when I'm ready."

"So when will that be?"

Flicking the top open with his thumb, he up-ended the bottle into his free hand and unceremonially wrapped a slick grip around the cock bobbing stiff and stout before him, relishing the hiss of shock he was met with. "When _you're_ ready," he replied simply, giving a sharp tug and swipe across the tip as preemptive apology before dipping down past the ball sack, tight and drawn up, to robotically commence with the preparations.

He really ought to have gotten the guy off once before doing this--jerked him off or _something_ \--and a moment's twinge of regret lanced through him as he watched Kirishima's flushed face graduate through a range of sensations as Yokozawa worked to open him up, hoping to make the experience as mutually pleasurable as possible.

It was…familiar. And completely new. Not hurried, not blurred by a haze of alcohol, not something he would regret for more reasons than one come tomorrow (he hoped)--something he _wanted_ , even if not with his whole self, and something he was capable of giving, willing to share right now because…Kirishima was not Masamune. Kirishima was not lying here, back arching, spread eagle and making sounds even the Sapphire lot would blush to hear just because he was drunk and lonely and Yokozawa was willing to be a substitute for something he'd lost long ago.

He wasn't a substitute--he _wasn't_. And Kirishima wasn't either. He wasn't about to fuck Masamune--and Kirishima wasn't sleeping with his wife. They were each themselves, nothing more, and--

"I'm the one with someone's fingers up his ass," Kirishima laughed roughly, voice gone husky and strained. "Shouldn't _I_ be the one looking all pained and confused?"

"Ah--" He withdrew his fingers instinctively, grimacing at himself. "I'm sorry. I just…"

"God you're adorable." Kirishima lifted his hips in a shallow thrust until his cock bumped into Yokozawa's fingers, nosing for attention. "Just get on with it; you'll feel better."

And he wasn't sure if the guy was just horny or if he really did understand that they both needed this right now, needed to make _something_ clear if nothing else, but he did honestly trust Kirishima at his word: if he threw himself into this, blocked out everything else--work, Hiyo, Masamune, Onodera--and just gave himself over to this man, this bed, this experience…yeah, he'd like that. He'd like that a _lot_.

He lifted up onto his knees, awkwardly shuffling out of his boxers with one hand and greasing his cock with the other, until shortly he was leaning over Kirishima again, easing his knees apart and lining himself up. "…This is probably a bad time to come clean, but…"

"…What?"

"…I probably would've let you do me. Last time. If you'd pushed me to."

Kirishima stared at him unblinkingly for a long moment--before releasing a harsh bark of laughter and shrugging his shoulders. "'S probably better this way."

"I'm not complaining."

"Well I'm _gonna_ be if you don't-- _oh_." His _oh_ resolved into a long hiss as Yokozawa nosed in, slow and careful at first before cautiously checking Kirishima's expression for cues as he slid home, straining to tune out his own pleasure--the long-missed exquisite sensation of being squeezed, gripped tight on all sides, buried in warmth that jerked and pulsed with biorhythm around him--in favor of taking in Kirishima's, watching hungrily as his mouth flapped open and closed, releasing a silent litany Yokozawa couldn't decipher but had to assume--hope, that it was something along the lines of _god fuck yes that's nice_. Yet another side of Kirishima he'd never gotten to see before, and some primal part of himself was already clawing, clamoring for _moremoremore,_ and he just wanted to lean over the guy, long and strong and feral and press him down, pound into him until he'd wrung all those sounds and expressions from him because _he_ wanted to be the only one allowed such privileges--no one else.

And then he immediately reined himself in, a wave of revulsion washing over him when he realized that already he was sinking back into the mire of jealousy, possession, smothering and needy and _undesirable_ and fuck why was this his go-to emotion, why did it always come to this when he let himself go, when he let himself get over-involved and _care_ about someone, even though there _was_ no threat, no one looming in the background threatening to show up and snatch him away, it just made _no sense_ and yet--

"Yokozawa--I love you, but I'm really going to need you stop having a breakdown and start fucking me." His hand felt about over the rumpled sheets pooled about them until he found Yokozawa's, easing his fingers through Yokozawa's own until he could squeeze meaningfully. "Or I'm gonna toss you down and fuck myself."

He couldn't help the small crooked grin this pulled from him, the tension across his shoulders easing further when Kirishima rolled his hips up insistently. "…I don't much like being thrown around by you."

"Then I guess you know what you need to do, don't you?"

Yokozawa responded with a sharp punch of his hips, not nearly enough length on him to be a proper thrust and serving instead to just press Kirishima further up on the bed, friction pushing him back when the sheets gathered up beneath him, and something in his chest fluttered when the shock on Kirishima's face at the action melted into a roguish grin of arousal, free arm slinging around to wrap about Yokozawa's neck to steady himself.

Yokozawa took this as tacit permission to commence with the matter at hand and pulled out again, long and shallow and slow before sliding in back to the hilt, repeating the measure a few times to build up a comfortable rhythm as each pass came smoother than the last.

He'd always been quiet in bed--or maybe he'd just never had a partner he could be that open with--but Kirishima…Kirishima obviously had no such qualms, and his moans and grunts and breathy whispers coalesced into a humming chorus that sent notes of _sex_ permeating the room, the sheets, the mattress, their own pores, nonsense babbling urging Yokozawa on, _fasterharderdeeper_ , he wasn't shy about voicing his desires, and in the heat of the moment, Yokozawa saw no sense in not giving in to each and every one, straining his muscles until they screamed, until he was worried he'd leave marks against Kirishima's hips, until he thought he'd be lost inside, fighting for the best angle, the roughest thrust sure to draw the sharpest shudder.

Kirishima's arm flexed, tightening around his neck to pull Yokozawa closer until their faces nearly touched, and he dropped his mouth open, lids hooded in shadow. "I want… _shit_ , I want to kiss when we come…"

"You told me to pull out--"

"Fuck what I told you, just--come on--" And without waiting for Yokozawa to agree, he took Yokozawa's lips in his own, tongue delving deep in some poor oral imitation of their bodies rolling together, and Yokozawa's body shuddered with the realization that Kirishima never did anything half-assed, and if Yokozawa opened himself up that way, if he let Kirishima really _have_ him…this is what it would be like, a complete and total assault on his senses that he wasn't entirely sure didn't scare the shit out of him.

Tugging his fingers free from where they'd been entangled with Yokozawa's, Kirishima sought a quick end to their activities with a hand gripped tight around his own leaking cock, and Yokozawa took the cue to push himself even harder, running on autopilot as he allowed Kirishima to take the rein, a machine of pumping and kissing and sucking and fucking.

Kirishima groaned into his mouth, pitch going sharp at the end as he tensed, releasing a sharp curse, "Oh-- _shit_ \--" before going rigid and leaving his hand a pistoning blur as he crested, spurting over his hand and stomach in three thick streams as he milked himself dry while his fingers slowed and loosened their hold over his flushed, sensitive skin.

Yokozawa twisted his head down and off to the side, lifting up to watch the show unfold beneath him, and the sight of Kirishima climaxing, backed by the swift pistoning of his own hips, his cock shiny and slick with oil and precum, was enough to spark the fuse at the base of his spine, and he felt his orgasm creep up on him at an exponential rate, urged on and over the top when Kirishima tightened around him. With a final few shuddering thrusts and a rough, heaving cry of effort, he pressed in a final time, resting his forehead at Kirishima's collar while he spurted his release until he had no more to give, struggling not to collapse on top of the guy in a boneless mess of orgasmic bliss. His arms and legs shook with the effort, and with the adrenaline high quickly leaving him, it was torture.

But then Kirishima's knee was pushing on his stomach, unbalancing him and shifting him to the right, until he couldn't hold himself up any longer, and he slipped free, falling flat onto his back as Kirishima righted himself and heaved his body up and over to settle on top, ass coming to ground just at Yokozawa's navel, where he stayed straddled.

Breath still coming in labored pants, Yokozawa frowned at their new position. "Told you…I don't like…being thrown around."

Kirishima leaned forward, settling his weight half on his hips, half on his arms, and Yokozawa swallowed thickly when Kirishima's softening cock smeared the remains of his orgasm across Yokozawa's stomach. "It was for your own good. You should let your elders take care of you young things." Without waiting for Yokozawa to deliver another smart retort, he leaned down further to gently slide his lips over Yokozawa's, coaxing his mouth open this time with as much finesse and largess now as he'd lacked moments before, and Yokozawa all but _whimpered_ at the welcome attentions, half-convinced he could sit here, kissing in this slow, languid fashion as fatigue washed over them and their muscles unwound, for hours--and it was all too soon when Kirishima pulled back with a soft _smack_ of lips separating, leaving Yokozawa to pathetically attempt to follow him with his own mouth until his body objected to the strain of the angle.

Kirishima's lips quirked up at one side, amusement dancing on his features, and when he spoke, his voice was rough, thick and used from his earlier mouthy display. "My answer...do you want it now?"

In the span of time it took Yokozawa to mouth in confusion _answer...?_ , he called up the echo of Kirishima's earlier words in his mind: _please don't ask me 'what do you want from me'_. He turned the question over in his head, chewing through it, before ultimately just nodding, and this seemed to suit Kirishima just fine.

"...This. You, me, us. Hiyo. Whatever you can give me--just like I said last night. I want it all. But--" He swallowed and drew his hands up and over Yokozawa's chest, fingers tapping in rhythm over his pectorals. "Mostly you right now. Everything else, we can work it out later. Just..." His lips twitched upward, showing the faint flash of white teeth. "You've kind of grown on us."

Yokozawa mulled this over for a long moment, closing his eyes and listening to the dull silence of the room, a stark contrast to the creaks and cries and sighs of only moments before. He cleared his throat softly, and responded as evenly as he could, "...I don't like owing you a debt."

And if it came off as little more than a crude suggestion that they try this again, roles reversed, Yokozawa couldn't help it--he was new at this whole thing, this _accepting good fortune_ , believing in shit like _true love_ , so maybe first loves didn't last, but maybe that wasn't always a bad thing. Maybe the only love that really counted was the one that snuck up behind you and slapped you around a bit until you were so disoriented you didn't realize that you had a good thing, a _real_ thing, right here in your hand. Maybe the one that counted was the one that _counted_.

Kirishima's eyes crinkled with laugh lines, and he snorted softly, enticingly brushing fingers down Yokozawa's biceps. "...Then I guess you know what you need to do, don't you?"

And for the first time in a long time...yeah, he did.


	34. One

What irritates you the most is that he doesn't have the slightest clue how pissed you are at him--much less _why_.

It's Day 11 of your self-imposed exile, but it had only taken you until Day 2 to realize that there is a very good reason you never won any of the fights with your wife this way, and it has little to do with who is actually at fault. 

Your date tonight--Kumiko? Fumiko? One of the general affairs girls--is charming and demure and dressed just daringly enough that you're pretty sure she knows exactly what she's doing when she orders a glass of 'whatever he's having' and flashes a bright white smile that would've made your heart do a little double beat a few years back but now has you raking your gaze over her, looking for the tell-tale signs you've come to recognize over time.

Like the way her eyes dart to your left hand when you reach up to wipe a bit of salad dressing from the corner of your mouth, or how she tends to drive the conversation away from herself and back to you, pushing and digging for information that she likely couldn't glean from the gossips in the copy room, or how she simply smiles and nods politely or just stifles a soft giggle at your idle quips when you can't fathom how anyone would think you'd ever want blind, slavish flattery in a conversation and not sharp banter, rousing back-and-forth keeping you on your toes and interested rather than working out how to subtly check your watch.

She wants to know if you'll be offended if she asks a crass question, and you laugh dryly--no, you'd quite welcome some frank conversation, and you expect it would take quite a bit for you to be offended by as lovely a young woman as--shit, you can't remember her given name, so you settle for her family name. Her smile grows with coquettish amusement; she thinks your slip-up a sign of rough coarsity, masculinity bleeding through because you can't be assed to use proper honorifics or given names.

"Are you…recently divorced, Kirishima-san?"

Something must show on your face, even though this is one of the dozens of questions you'd schooled yourself on before embarking on this 'adventure', and she colors and quickly amends her question, confessing that she's noticed you around the office before, helped organize events for your authors, and she could have _sworn_ you wore a wedding ring, and she doesn't want you to think her an idle gossip, but she recalls a sempai mentioning you had a daughter…?

"Yes," you respond to all of her questions at once, much more coolly than you mean to, and you can't help it--it's your sparkling personality shining through. Why you can't seem to remember for five minutes that you're on a mission here--one which you're doing a spectacular job of self-sabotaging--is beyond you, but now you've gone and embarrassed the poor girl, and she's trying to lose herself in the glass of wine she ordered to impress you (which admittedly, kind of did; you like it when your partners can hold their liquor as well as you can).

It's just…there's something missing.

Well, one thing really: she's not him. She's not Yokozawa any more than the girl from distribution you went out with on Wednesday was, and this shouldn't be as much as sticking point as it is, but it _is_ , and that's all there is to it.

It's not her fault, you're mentally apologizing already. She's a perfectly nice girl, with a delicate, slender figure and a face that's rather pleasing in structure, and while conversing with her hasn't done much for you, you recognize that she's got an easy rhythm that would likely charm others but just feels like walking through deep mud with you, no snappy, snarking rhetoric nipping at your heels when you make some grandiose comment; if you called her a bottom-line-obsessed idiot with a stick up her ass, you're worried she'd either slap you or break down in tears. You need someone who can field that sort of commentary and come back at you with _do you really want to bite the hand that feeds you?_

And maybe there's a woman out there who can do that, someone who can go toe-to-toe with you and come out the victor half the time while spending her free moments peeling potatoes with Hiyo or reviewing how to multiply complex fractions.

Maybe there's a woman out there who's exactly what you never knew you needed much less wanted, and maybe there's not. But there _is_ a man like that in your life already, and with each passing moment, each calculated brush of a strand of hair behind an ear, each light, lilting burble of laughter as you make some amusing quip about the restaurant you've chosen, you're reminded that somewhere out in the city tonight (probably at home; the guy has no social life to speak of, you've come to understand) is the person you'd rather be sitting across the table from, the person Hiyo cares for almost as much as you do, the person who understands you and needs you and _loves_ you, even if he hates being pressed to admit it.

"Kirishima-san?" You're a horrible date tonight, you're realizing, and it's the third time in the past 20 minutes that she's had to call your attention back to the present, her easy smile a bit stretched, worried that she's boring you and the panicked thoughts flitting through her mind painted clearly on her features.

You apologize, flashing a smile of your own, chalking your reticence and wandering mind to the recent deadline you just barely met, and change the topic to her work at Marukawa, which she graciously allows in a desperate attempt to hold your attention. 

You take a moment here to mark her, to gauge her: it's what you're here for, after all--not to find a new romantic partner for yourself, but to find someone who'll be able to the the maternal figure you've been informed Hiyo apparently needs.

Like you haven't been doing a fucking fine job of raising your daughter fine all this time on your own. 

It's hard to keep the bitterness out of the reminder, even inside your head, and you fight the sneer your lip wants to curl into. Much as you respect the guy, he can piss you off like no other--maybe because you let him in closer than anyone else. It's a risk you take in a relationship, even (especially?) the strange one you and Yokozawa share, but it's enough to give you pause before considering engaging in any new ones.

It's worth it with Yokozawa; but would it be worth it with someone else?

And what about Hiyo? Isn't this whole song-and-dance for her, in the end? Aren't you supposed to be sussing out a suitable mother--and just what constitutes such a beast? You think you did a pretty damn good job finding a mother the first time, and while the bits might be less traditional, you think you've done a decent job of it the second time around as well. What are the odds that, despite this stellar track record, you'll find a perfect match this third time?

What if you bring this general affairs girl home and Hiyo doesn't take to her? You don't want to become one of _those_ divorcées, who drag their latest conquest home and foist them upon their unsuspecting child with the insinuation that person will be their new mother or father--but then again, isn't that kind of what you've already done with Yokozawa?

Granted, sure, you didn't _mean_ to suggest as much, you just…wanted Yokozawa to know you better, and seeing as Hiyo's a pretty damned big part of you, it only made sense that you want him to meet the only thing more important to you than being the top-selling editor in the company. That they took to each other like a fish to water only sweetened the deal, but even if Hiyo hadn't approved, or hadn't warmed to him, you suspect you wouldn't have regretted the decision: it had meant something big to you, opening yourself up like that. And it had meant something even bigger…when he'd shown you through and through what a spectacularly _right_ decision it had been.

But Yokozawa is special--he's a _guy_ , just a friend of yours, as far as Hiyo knows, and by the time she realizes otherwise, Yokozawa will be so entwined in your family weave that she won't feel threatened, and you've had this conversation with your mother a dozen times, always citing the same worry. Of course, being your mother, she's always quick to remind you that you're an excellent judge of character and that any woman you deem a fitting partner, Hiyo will take to with the same enthusiasm. _You're too alike not to,_ she likes to remind you, and while Hiyo does take after her mother in looks, Yokozawa has pointed out on several occasions that she shares many of your more (and less) charming personality quirks.

So you're back, again, to Yokozawa, and your date has finally gotten the hints you've been unconsciously dropping all evening, glancing at her watch and professing a pressing need to be back home before 10, flushing as she pieces together a story involving an early-morning package delivery she wants to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for. You spare her any further embarrassment and wasted time and just flag down your waiter for the check.

You thank her for a lovely evening as she's doing the same to you at the station, and you politely wave as she bustles through the gates and down to the Hanzomon tracks before turning on your heel and shuffling slowly back toward the JR platforms above-ground. You neither one of you put forth an offer of another date beyond _see you at the office?_

You suppose you should apologize--to a lot of people by this point. To your date, to Hiyo, to your mother, to Yokozawa. You've let them all down in different, yet not unrelated ways, and you didn't get to where you are by being unreliable, so it only seems fitting. Your hand slips unconsciously into your pocket, palming your cell phone, and you wonder what he'd say to you if you called him up right now and suggested he come out drinking with you. You release it, though, and put aside the thought when your mind easily comes up with a half-dozen ways he could blow you off. Still, it might be worth it, and your fingers twitch in anticipation, muscle memory aching to draw up his number from your recent calls history.

Instead, you slip your hand into your opposite pocket and pull out your key case. It's old, the shine of the handsome burnished leather having faded and dulled over time, but it's still hanging on; maybe you'll buy a new one with your next bonus. Careful not to stress the metal backing, you finger your apartment key clanking alongside your car key, your parents' house key, and the key to the file cabinet kept behind your desk.

Two weeks ago, he sent you out to find someone to marry, someone to help you take care of Hiyo, someone who can love you and cherish you, honor and protect you and all that shit you're supposed to pledge when you marry.

You've humored him long enough.


	35. Thousand

The slow, controlled burn as he eases inside is arousing in its familiarity now, and that he can imagine what Kirishima is feeling right now as Yokozawa fills him up, the sharp stretch that fades into a dull, sore echoing reminder, almost makes it feel like he's fucking and getting fucked at the same time--and that? He _loves_ that.

Kirishima's fingers dig into his biceps, clenching tight and panicky--but it's just a reflex, and Yokozawa can see from his face that he's doing his best to keep from popping, trying to keep quiet because he knows Yokozawa prefers it that way, and in return, Yokozawa brushes away the locks of chestnut sticking to Kirishima's forehead, sweat like glue because it's August, and what's the point of trying to stay cool if they're going to do this? They'll shower later--so may as well enjoy the slick, glistening glide of their bodies together while they're too turned on to care that it feels like an oven with all the doors and windows shut.

Kirishima obliges him his preferences, and Yokozawa returns the favor by fucking him slow and gentle, because the guy likes that kind of romantic shit (and okay, fine, sometimes Yokozawa does too). He presses up tight, every inch of his body melding against the one beneath him--thighs, chests, lips, and Yokozawa slips a hand between them to keep Kirishima's cock interested as he tilts his hips back, because there's only so much _slow_ and _gentle_ he can handle before he snaps. He thinks Kirishima maybe understands this, because the guy brings his arms up and wraps them tight around Yokozawa's neck, hanging on for dear life, and whispers thickly, "I blew off a date for you, so you'd better make this worthwhile."

He'd found them in the _Japun_ cluster--Kirishima reclining lazily in that extravagant desk chair that was most assuredly not company issue and the girl ( _woman_ ) standing awkwardly a few paces back, wringing her hands in front of her with shoulders slumped as she worked herself up to whatever she'd cornered the guy for well after-hours and when most all but security and the custodians had already left. He hadn't been able to hear them--not well, at least; he'd been on the other side of the divider and frozen in the doorway, but he could still catch words, bits of phrases. _Dinner_ , _honored if_ , _understand you're busy_ , _just a drink even_ , _not necessarily tonight_ , _please_ \--

Kirishima hadn't seen him--not initially, but then there'd been that damned awkward elevator ride down, and the guy hadn't said a _thing_ , even though Yokozawa had _known_ that he must somehow have some psychic empathy that he could turn on and off, because how else could you explain how positively, stupidly _thick_ he could be at times and sharper than a tack at others? How did someone who seemed so utterly blind to the emotions of those around him still manage to read Yokozawa better _and_ worse than anyone else? And why did Yokozawa have to get stuck with him?

Why did he have to be so _fucking_ charming and competent and beautiful and talented, and why did he have to go and make Yokozawa fall for him? Because without that damned ring, everyone was on the prowl, licking their chops and seeking the kill, hoping to fell the poor widowed Kirishima and land a handsome husband and an endearing step-daughter in one swoop--and Yokozawa _hated_ the kind of person he became when faced with such threats. Reflecting, Yokozawa soberly admitted to himself that he couldn't have fallen for a _worse_ person in that respect. 

But he couldn't march over and bark at the woman to lay off Kirishima, he couldn't scowl at her and menace her and bully her into getting the idea, because if he'd learned nothing else, it was that such tactics backfired _gravely_ , so--really, Yokozawa had had no choice _but_ to let his briefcase clatter to the floor, shove Kirishima against the wall, and press in with one hand at the back of his head for a heated, desperate kiss, all lips and teeth and tongue and desperate grunts as he tried to bodily impress upon Kirishima all of the fears and worries and panic he couldn't bring himself to voice.

"...You know I'd never say _yes_ ," Kirishima had chided breathily, swollen lips making it difficult to enunciate as he ran his hands through Yokozawa's close-cropped hair, and Yokozawa had just deepened the furrow between his brow because, once again, the guy _just had not gotten it_.

Maybe he gets it now, Yokozawa muses, one of the more coherent thoughts still flitting about in his mind, the rest of his focus dwindling down to a tight, powerful dot of concentration as he snaps his hips back to draw out long and leisurely, before sliding in purposefully again. He thinks about what Kirishima might otherwise be doing right now: waving down a waiter at a nice restaurant in that sports jacket he keeps hanging behind his desk 'just in case,' deftly swiping the bill before she can see it and slipping his card inside for the hand-off with a quirk of his brow, sharing a last glass of wine before swallowing thickly and dropping his voice to a timbre only she can catch because she's leaning in, expression coy, and cocking her head, lower lip tucked under a row of white teeth as he coaxes, _so...I was thinking maybe...?_

 __Yokozawa clenches his teeth and slides in more jerkily, harshly, than he'd meant to, and Kirishima hisses and bites back a cry, hips shuddering with the force as he arches his back and lifts off the bed a hair--he doesn't look angry, or even irritated, only confused, but it looks a lot like arousal too, and Yokozawa supposes maybe it's a little of both, that he doesn't understand why Yokozawa's in this _mood_ tonight (not a bad mood...but decidedly not a good one either) but he doesn't really care either because it has him here on his back, his cock in Yokozawa's hand and Yokozawa's cock in his ass, and that's always a good general state of affairs, and if Yokozawa wants to discuss it (he won't), they can do it later. 

He ducks his head and presses a line of kisses to Yokozawa's jugular, sucking in sharply when Yokozawa shifts his hips to change the angle--it'll leave a mark, but Yokozawa has high-cut collars and ties that draw the eye away, and tonight...tonight he'll allow it. Because the pinch, the soft scrape of teeth, the gentle laving apology as Kirishima swipes his tongue over the mark to seal it--it all means he's _here_ , under Yokozawa, wrapped around him, and not out trawling for company or using that smile and quick wit to charm some new heartbroken fancy of his into letting their world dwindle down to just _him_.

Of course Yokozawa knows he'd never say _yes_ , but knowing and _understanding_ are two different things, and he can't for the life of him, even after all this time, really wrap his mind around the _why_ , can't fathom what he has that they don't have, those thousands who fling themselves at his feet--

And then he wonders if it's _that_ , the challenge, the rush, the _fight_ \--of course, the pride. Fuck, yes, Yokozawa has that in spades--and something turns in his stomach, light and dizzying but not sickening: it's _confidence_ , and he doesn't know that he's ever really had that in a relationship. Not a relationship he cared about at least--he's never had _confidence_ that they'll choose him, over all others, but Kirishima is attracted to pride, and you don't have to have a lick of confidence to be a prideful asshole, this Yokozawa is certain of, so if nothing else _that_ is where he has them beaten.

These women that dog Kirishima's steps, that study and monitor and make their moves, attacking and retreating to lick their wounds before tapping out to start a new round, they have confidence by the bucketloads--you have to, to approach Marukawa Shoten's most eligible bachelor--and Yokozawa wonders if maybe that was what he'd been jealous of all along: not a dark, dirty fear that Kirishima would tire of him, but sheer untainted _envy_ of the balls they had to open themselves up and _ask_ for him, ask for _him_.

There is no pride in asking; only humility. Of _course_ Kirishima would turn them down.

Confidence can manifest in more ways than one, though, and Yokozawa recognizes it now here, between them, in the impossibly extant spaces where flesh hasn't melded to flesh quite securely enough, and it binds them together all the more surely: _You know I'd never say yes_. Yes; Yokozawa _does_ know that. That's the beauty of it.

He knows full well that no matter how they line up and beg his hand, his heart, Kirishima has already pledged himself to another, and _Whoever-san_ from _Whatever department_ will never have him, not so long as Yokozawa has pride--and he will not soon be parted from something so intrinsically _himself_. Kirishima doesn't want her--he only wants Yokozawa, and Yokozawa is the only one who can do this to him, _with_ him.

Kirishima heaves, breath catching in his throat, when Yokozawa brings one hand just under his ass to lift him up and change the angle, fingers digging into the soft flesh and sure to leave marks of a different sort. He tightens his grip around Yokozawa's neck and arches and positions his legs to keep the angle so that Yokozawa can thrust with abandon and commence with getting them both off in the most pleasurable way possible--voice rough and low in his ear when he grunts breathily, "Fuck me so I never forget why I turned her down."

And a part of Yokozawa reasons that if a decent lay is all that's keeping them together, they'll be over before the week's out, but then he remembers _confidence_ and _pride_ and snorts in derision, "I'll fuck you any way I damn well please."

Everything just works out better that way.


	36. Fool

Yokozawa frowned, turning his wrist to catch the time off his watch--it was late, a hell of a lot later than he usually left the office, and while it had hardly been avoidable (who actually _wanted_ to spend more time at work than was required? Work ethic only went so far), he couldn't shake the guilty knot in his stomach at not being able to so much as send off a text message to warn Hiyori that he wouldn't be sauntering through the door laden down with grocery bags at his usual early hour.

Kids worried, he knew; any shake-up in their routine and they were a wreck, panicked thoughts flitting about their little heads because _something wasn't right_ , and Yokozawa knew they had enough to deal with at that age, so why make matters worse by screwing up their schedules? That this wasn't just any kid but _Hiyo_ only made matters worse.

Still, she was usually on top of things, firing off an e-mail before Yokozawa even got around to letting her know he'd be more than fifteen minutes late, so rare were the Friday evenings when they hadn't one of them consulted with the other to figure out what sort of feast Kirishima would be treated to this evening--or where _they'd_ be wheedling Kirishima to treat them to dinner from.

Slipping a hand into his vest pocket, he tugged out his cell phone and flipped the screen open--no missed calls or text messages, absolutely nothing new since the last time he'd checked an hour ago. No interoffice memos from the _Japun_ floor, no calls routed through Henmi because Yokozawa tended to hang up if he wasn't in a mood to be bothered. Just dead silence that had at first been relieving but now, with the clock edging toward 9 PM, was getting a bit unnerving, and Yokozawa finally raked a last glance over his desk, deemed himself well and done for the day, and swept down the hallway, briefcase in hand, toward the elevators--punching the _up_ button against his better judgment.

The guy was exactly where Yokozawa had expected to find him--hunched over his desk discussing what looked to be some panels with one of the newer editors of the group, their voices not carrying across the editing floor to where Yokozawa had peeked in, and he was spared the shame of announcing himself when one of the stragglers still hanging around recognized him and called out to him.

Kirishima's head immediately snapped up, almost visibly standing at attention all without moving from where he sat, and the fatigued shadows under his eyes instantly faded as his face lit up with a wry smile, brows lifting with his spirits. "Well well, look who decided to grace us with his presence." Under the teasing tone was the unmistakeable note of relief and wonder, and while Kirishima had made vocal mention of neither, Yokozawa still shifted uncomfortably in place with the understanding of how his mere presence affected Kirishima. He wasn't _used_ to people so overtly (and yet still so subtly, as no one else seemed to take note) reacting to him--at least not _positively_.

He swallowed and flicked his gaze around the room, taking stock and trying to work out in his mind how to start a conversation that wouldn't rouse any suspicion-- _shit_ he definitely should've just done this over the phone, or better yet, via text. He could've been out the door already and not standing around here with half the _Japun_ staff gawking. 

Clearing his throat, he gave a subtle jerk to his head, and after a quick whispered excuse to the editor he'd been working with, Kirishima practically leapt to his feet, jogging over to where Yokozawa stood just on the other side of the threshold. He seemed remarkably energetic for what looked to be another couple of hours yet before he could head home, and Yokozawa silently envied him his stamina--nights like this were probably commonplace up here, but for someone in Sales, it was an experience he didn't want to soon repeat.

When Kirishima drew up close, Yokozawa took a few measured steps back; Kirishima was less than discreet even at his best, and this late in the evening with so few coworkers roaming the halls, who knew how he might be tempted to skirt the boundaries of propriety. If Kirishima took offense to the space broadening between them, though, he didn't show it, and instead quirked a brow and muttered, "So?"

"So?" Yokozawa repeated in confusion, feeling as if he were missing something.

The quirk to his brow drifted down to his lips, which slid into a cocky smile. "Not that I don't _love_ it when you pop in for a visit, but usually wild horses couldn't drag you up here--what, Henmi slipped off for the day leaving you gofer-less? Want me to loan you one of mine?"

Yokozawa rolled his eyes, the strength to rise to Kirishima's playful jabs having faded several hours back. "You get any word from Hiyo? If she's already eaten, I was just going to grab something from the conbini--especially if you're going to be stuck here for the rest of the night--" Kirishima's immediate, uncharacteristic grimace gave him pause, "--unless…what, I should still cook? I'm not making something only to stick it in the fridge, you know. You can choke down something from Lawson's for one night this week--"

"No that's--" Kirishima waved him off, hand slipping up to scratch at the back of his neck in nervous habit, and he massaged his nape in reflex. "Ah--well, you _do_ know…that Hiyo's on a field trip to Shizuoka this weekend, right?" At Yokozawa's silent blinking, he reminded, "I'm almost positive we told…I mean, you and her, you talk all the time, right? I just assumed…" He trailed off weakly, gesturing haphazardly in the air at the absent Hiyori, and Yokozawa stood there stonily letting the news sink in. Kirishima must have sensed that Yokozawa had very much _not_ been aware of Hiyo's plans for whatever reason, and he hastily apologized. "I'm sorry, just I assumed she'd mentioned it, so I…" He huffed softly. "Look on the bright side--now you get a kid-free weekend all to yourself." And while the thought should have relieved Yokozawa, he felt the expression on his face likely reflected well his distaste with the idea.

Much as children liked their routines, so did Yokozawa--and now that after several months he'd finally _adjusted_ to the idea that his Fridays would be spent not out drinking with coworkers or indulging in some self-pampering as others around the office liked to do but instead drafting a list of ingredients to pick up from the little shop-and-save near the station by Kirishima's apartment, he was actually…finding he didn't so much mind how much his life had been shaken up. 

Sure, he'd bitten and clawed with every bit of 'wild bear' within him, but in the end…he had to admit, sitting down to dinner once or twice a week with the Kirishimas, as confident as someone with his issues could be that he was with people who gave a shit about him, sure beat reheated leftovers sitting on his couch alone but for Sorata, pining over a love that he'd probably always known deep down would never be requited, even if he thought he deserved it a hell of a lot more than Onodera did.

Kirishima seemed unusually perceptive despite the late hour and workload and, well, being _Kirishima_ , and compassion threatened to settle over his features as he opened his mouth to say--something that Yokozawa didn't get to hear, for before he could get a word out, one of his subordinates called for him frantically from further inside, sounding very much like she'd accidentally just shredded an author's entire manuscript from the panic in her voice. Kirishima threw an irritated glance over his shoulder before turning, apologetic, back to Yokozawa.

He cut the guy off, though, reminding gruffly, "You're being missed."

"I…yeah, I am."

Yokozawa jerked his head shortly. "Then get going. I'll…see you Monday," and for a brief moment, a flash of panic crossed Kirishima's face, like he had just realized he was about to do something very stupid and couldn't help himself, and Yokozawa shifted in preparation to take another step back if the guy got any ideas, his own heart rate rising with anxiety. But in the end, nothing came, and Kirishima just pursed his lips and nodded shortly, taking a step back of his own before turning swiftly on his heel and marching over to the editor who'd interrupted them.

Yokozawa watched his back for far longer than was appropriate before forcing his gaze away and turning his feet toward the elevators.

* * *

He wasn't sure how he'd gotten here.

He understood the logistics, of course; he'd taken the Oedo line down a few stops, made a changeover he'd made dozens of times before, stopped to charge his pass along the way, taken out 20,000 yen from the 7-11 just in case, and helped an old lady load her grocery bags into her bike basket before stepping across the threshold into the bright, glimmering station-side shop--but how exactly he'd arrived here, mentally, was a different matter altogether.

Because with Hiyo a prefecture away and Kirishima hunched over a manuscript with barely the time to spare for some ill-advised teasing in the hallway, Yokozawa should be at _home_ , enjoying his first free weekend in who knew how long, curled up on the couch with Sorata at the other end, a book in his lap that he could pretend he was reading, even though he'd likely be going through potential meals to prepare for the Kirishimas next week.

Instead, though, he was…well, going through potential meals to prepare for the Kirishimas next week. Well, maybe not so much 'next week' as 'that evening' and not so much 'the Kirishimas' as just 'Kirishima' himself, because somewhere along the way he'd gotten into the habit of _caring_ as much about the people who'd allowed him into their lives as they seemingly did about him, and Yokozawa had an annoying habit of wanting to prove to those he cared about that their feelings for him weren't misplaced, and if that manifested as cooking dinner for someone who patently didn't need him hovering all the time, then Yokozawa supposed that was just a sign that he was getting older. His liver probably preferred this over drinks with Masamune, at least.

He frowned as he reached for a bottle of _dashi_ \--a brand he hadn't tried before--and inspected the label.

There really was _no_ sense in getting this attached to these people. He didn't belong here, and sooner or later they were going to realize it. Ingratiating himself like this, pouring into them all the things he wanted in return, was only going to sting all the sharper when everything turned on its head. Only a fool would repeat the same mistakes from before, giving in to the siren call of someone offering him love and affection and a place to come home to, only to realize too late that he was never going to be able to transform into the person they _really_ wanted to offer all of that to. 

He placed the _dashi_ bottle into his basket and moved down the aisle.

* * *

"Don't just stand there gawking like an idiot," Yokozawa snapped gruffly, jerking his head to the side to indicate the cupboard. "Set the table." He didn't need to turn around to confirm that Kirishima was standing at the kitchen threshold, his briefcase in one hand and jaw hanging slack as his breath stalled in his throat. It was easier to just keep an eye on the broth and continue stirring than to offer any meager explanation of what he was doing here, in Kirishima's kitchen, an apron tied snugly at his waist and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he seasoned the vegetable soup he'd thrown together.

Shuffling behind him told him that Kirishima had complied after a moment, and he released a slow sigh of relief--better to put off discussing just what the hell he was doing here than to address it just right at the moment--only to shortly realize he'd spoken too soon, as Kirishima drew up close behind him, taking advantage of their height difference to rest his chin on Yokozawa's shoulder as he peered down into the pot.

"You put leeks in." His voice was low and rough, mostly from sheer exhaustion, but with a twinge of emotion laced through it, and Yokozawa rolled his shoulder to force some space.

"You're perceptive."

"…Hiyo doesn't like leeks."

Yokozawa grimaced, turning the dial down on the stovetop until the blue flame flickered out. "…Well Hiyo's not here tonight, is she?"

After a beat of silence, he heard Kirishima step away, headed for the cupboard, and he glanced over out of the corner of his eye to find the guy--frustratingly enough--shaking his head in amusement. "Nope. She isn't."

He drowned out the unspoken follow-up of _and yet you're still here_ with another round of cursing himself for a fool before reaching for the ladle and scooping out portions for two from the pot.


	37. Drive

He couldn't quite recall what he was doing here.

He knew why he'd left, all but driven out of Kirishima's place (which would never be _their place_ because that's just how things were and would always be until--and the possibility practically choked him where it lay lodged in his throat--they found a place _together_ ) because _fuck_ he really shouldn't have given up his apartment, really _needed_ a place where he could go and be _away_ from that man, from that _relationship_ and just take a moment to get his shit together. Sometimes he newness of it all, the _change_ from the norm he'd known for ten years now just got to be too much, and he cursed himself for giving in to wheedling grins and dancing eyes and sour wine on sweet lips and _Come live with us, Takafumi…_

That the guy hadn't even _needed_ to use Hiyo to sweeten the deal still grated.

He knew why he'd had to _get away_ , just for an evening, just for a few minutes even, he just…didn't know why _away_ had turned into _Sengoku_ and _12th floor_ and _first apartment on the right_. Kirishima would be furious--

No, no he wouldn't. He'd sit there and pull in on himself into a dark little corner of his mind and grow quiet, and he wouldn't show it at all; he'd be the perfect papa to Hiyo and handle his workload with just as much aplomb as ever, and all the while inside he'd be dying but outside…outside he'd be fine.

That was the worst part; Yokozawa could deal with _furious_ \--it was what made him such a damn good negotiator. He could rip and roar with the best of them and was confident that neither Masamune nor Kirishima had ever once given in to his demands out of consideration for any relationship that might lie between them. He could deal with spit and rage and arguing for argument's sake, but…this asshole hardly ever gave him that courtesy, not when it really mattered.

Kirishima wouldn't like that he was here--but he wouldn't be angry. He'd just be _Kirishima_ , and that was somehow even _worse_.

After some hesitation, where he reminded himself he still didn't know why he was here and therefore would have nothing to say as soon as that door opened, his finger shot out and pressed the buzzer of its own accord, a muffled _pin-pon_ echoing from inside. A long moment passed before Masamune's voice crackled over the receiver, _"Yes?"_ and Yokozawa instantly realized how pathetic this was, but it was too late to back down, and he managed a fumbled, "It's--me," because thank god they'd recovered something resembling a friendship and Masamune might actually recognize his voice again.

 _"Ah--"_ was the only response before the receiver fell silent, and he could now hear padding feet from inside the apartment as Masamune stalked toward the genkan, shoving open the door with a look on his face that said he didn't actually _expect_ to see Yokozawa out here, regardless of the voice he'd heard over the intercom. Yokozawa shifted nervously, still groping for what to say, when Masamune saved him the trouble. "…You look like shit."

That, at least, kept the stupid smile that threatened to creep onto his lips from manifesting, and he snorted softly. "Such a way with words."

Masamune returned the expression and pushed the door open further in evident invitation, and Yokozawa prepared to cross the threshold, wishing he'd thought this through enough to have at least brought some beers if not snacks--when his ear caught the sound of someone puttering about in the kitchen just around the corner, and his gaze flickered down to the shoes in the _genkan_ , one pair most definitely not Masamune's.

And _fuck_ , of course he was interrupting something, because Masamune wasn't a bachelor anymore, he wasn't someone Yokozawa could just run to whenever he felt like it, just as the same could be said of Yokozawa in return. How the hell would _he_ have felt if Masamune had showed up banging on Kirishima's door at half-past 11 demanding Yokozawa cheer him up? How would _Kirishima-san_ have felt?

"Oh--" he started awkwardly, because there really was no other way this was about to end than with Yokozawa looking and sounding like a fool, but Masamune cut him off and stepped down into the _genkan_ , slipping on his shoes.

"I'm going out, Onodera," was the call he threw over his shoulder, followed by an offended squawk from the kitchen and muffled protests which Masamune must have understood, for he followed up with, "What, you wanna come out with me and Yokozawa?"

And here Onodera finally poked his head out of the kitchen, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a dishtowel clenched in one hand. "But--we were supposed to go over my check?"

Masamune stuffed one arm and then the other into the sleeves of his long coat, tugging on the lapels to situate it on comfortably over his shoulders. "You need me to hold you hand through the whole thing?" Onodera flushed in offense, opening his mouth to object, and Masamune smoothly reminded, "I'll be back in an hour; try not to break more of my dishes."

If Onodera had any response to this, it was lost as Masamune shuttled them out the door and onto the chilly landing outside the apartment, locking the door behind himself. If his mood had been any less black, Yokozawa might have snorted and made some snide comment about the way Masamune still obviously coddled the guy, but as it was, he simply stood there in shocked silence, robotically following Masamune to the elevator.

* * *

It wasn't until they were settled comfortably at the far end of the bar in a local izakaya, drinks that they weren't going to finish nestled in their grips so they had reason to linger, that Masamune even asked him what they were doing there, and while Yokozawa hadn't formulated an excuse by the time he'd reached the apartment earlier, he'd had 20 minutes of awkward silence now to come up with something, though it's not an answer to Masamune's question.

"…I didn't realize."

"Hm?" Oh, or well, perhaps Masamune _did_ intend to finish his drink, because he was halfway through the tumbler of something Yokozawa doesn't recognize--which was saying something--before Yokozawa could blink.

"I didn't realize--" He jerked his head to the door, beyond which lay the backroads of Sengoku 4-chome and eventually apartment 1201, Onodera within. "--that you were that close."

Masamune snorted into the rim of his glass, closing his eyes and muttering, "I'm not sure we really are," and he was smiling, but not a happy one. Yokozawa recognized it for what it was instantly--mostly because he'd seen it so many time--and realized that he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to not _hate_ Onodera on some level.

Yokozawa regarded him evenly for a long moment, and because Masamune's problems were less intimidating to address than his own, he offered, "…You ought to scare him a little." Masamune gave him a funny look, a little guarded, and he clarified, "He's just gonna keep running away if you throw yourself at him." And if Masamune was going to drink, then he might as well, too--and he took a slow sip of his whiskey sour, careful to pace himself because it just wouldn't do to stagger home stinking of booze. "Make him come to you."

Masamune humored him, probably because he was a little amused and a lot confused as to why Yokozawa was offering him relationship advice. "And how the hell am I supposed to do that?"

Yokozawa shrugged. "Tell him you're through with him. Tell him you've realized that you were just fooling yourself all these years and that you've finally come to your senses and realized you're madly in love with me."

Masamune gaped blankly for a moment, comically frozen with his glass halfway to his mouth, when the corner of his mouth quirked up into a half smile in concert with the cocking of Yokozawa's own brow, and he muffled his own grin in the lip of his glass as he allowed, "…Thanks, I'll give it a shot."

If Yokozawa felt any clenching in his chest from this exchange, it was only out of guilt and nostalgia, and he was quickly distracted from this discomfort by Masamune smoothly changing the subject and going for the throat: "So what're you here for?"

Yokozawa glared into his glass, as if he might be able to pressure the swirling amber liquid to reveal to him how best to broach the subject without sounding more pathetic than he already felt.

Masamune watched him carefully for a long moment as he gathered his thoughts before hazarding, with all the tact of a bull in a china shop, "Kirishima-san must've really pissed you off if you dragged yourself halfway across the city for a drink in a crappy hole-in-the-wall like this." And if he noticed the dirty look the barkeep shot him at this comment, Masamune gave no indication.

This was a less loaded question than _what're you here for_ , so Yokozawa mustered a response of, "…Not really that so much as…I had to go _somewhere_ since it's hard to storm out of your own home in a rage."

Masamune paused a tick, brows furrowing in bemusement, before it dawned. "…Oh, right." And here Yokozawa was reminded once again that even living as close to one another as Masamune and Onodera did, they still very much had their private spaces that they could bury themselves in, away from the other, when they just wanted to be _alone_. Yokozawa didn't have that luxury anymore. "I forgot. You know, that you two were…" 

Yokozawa wasn't sure who was more uncomfortable with this conversation now. He sighed and bit the bullet, massaging his temples with his fingers: "He wants me to go with him to some parent-teacher-student conference." Masamune looked quite confused at this, and Yokozawa had to remind himself that he didn't tell the guy every little thing that happened anymore, and if he'd forgotten that Yokozawa and Kirishima were living together, then he could've just as easily forgotten that Kirishima had a school-aged daughter as well. "For his daughter."

Masamune's brows quirked up in amusement, but he kept his features even, nodding. "And--what, you can't go?"

"I don't _want_ to go," Yokozawa corrected, shoulders tensing the way they did every time this topic had come up with Kirishima over the past week. "They--all of the other parents, they think…" He wiped a hand over his face. "They think it's weird enough I ran in his place at Hiyo's field day last Spring, what the hell are they gonna think when--"

"Wait, field day?"

"--I show up with--"

"I haven't heard this one."

"--Kirishima-san for a--"

"Go back, I want details." Yokozawa cut him a glance as sharp as any he gave Henmi at the office, and Masamune relented with a knowing chuckle, holding a hand up in surrender. "I'll get it out of you some day. Or go to Kirishima-san if I must." It was a very valid threat; Yokozawa had half-feared that Kirishima would be perpetually icy with Masamune, a frigid wall of non-communication and veiled threats designed to stake a claim that Masamune wanted no part in, but instead the guy had taken to texting Masamune every embarrassing photo he could manage to snap of Yokozawa. He wasn't sure if he preferred it this way or not.

When Yokozawa made it clear he was not going to be baited on this point--not tonight at least--Masamune sighed and shrugged his shoulders. "Sorry, but I really don't see what the big deal is."

" _Don't see what the_ \--"

"You don't see me worrying about this shit with Onodera."

"That's because you're an asshole."

"Who cares what the other parents think?"

"That would be the part that makes you an asshole." He twisted in his seat, settling one elbow on the bar. "It's not about _caring_ what others think, it's about giving a shit about how it might impact others. Maybe this meeting doesn't seem like a big deal to you--but it's sure as hell going to start _talk_ , and kids don't need to put up with that kind of shit. Not this early in life." He ran a glance up and down Masamune's figure, adding, "…And you do _so_ care what other people think."

"Mmm, do I?" He idly swirled the remaining liquid in his glass, keeping his gaze averted.

"You do. Else you'd be crowing from the rooftops that you're sleeping with Onodera."

"Too cold for crowing just now; wait another few months." He knocked back the rest of his drink and gave Yokozawa a long look. "…It's not going to get any easier, you know. With a kid, it's really…"

"I know."

"I'm just saying, it's gonna come up, if you're in it for the long haul--"

" _I know._ "

Masamune regarded him coolly. "…Then what the hell are we doing here?"

Yokozawa still wasn't sure about that, so he just finished the rest of his own drink.

* * *

The apartment was dark when he returned, and Yokozawa endeavored to be as quiet as possible as he slipped off his shoes and coat in the entry way and crept back to his room--pausing only for a moment when he noticed a soft glow seeping out from under Kirishima's door. He'd spent the last hour and a half either in transit or being lecture by Masamune; he really didn't want to get into it again with Kirishima tonight.

Which was going to be difficult, he realized with sinking dread as he stepped into his room, with Kirishima curled up on his bed, dozing lightly. His lids flickered in annoyance when Yokozawa shut the door behind himself with more force than was appropriate for the middle of the night, and he grumbled in irritation, "Gonna wake up the whole building…"

"I'll settle for just waking _you_ up. Get back in your own bed."

Kirishima didn't move, watching Yokozawa warily from where he lay sprawled out on top of the comforter, material bunching up around him where he'd obviously tossed and turned several times over before settling down to nap. "Where'd you go?"

"Out," he responded petulantly, reaching for the tie he'd removed earlier and hanging it up properly on the rack in his closet.

"Didn't need to ask you to understand that."

"Then you just wasted one of the three questions I'm going to answer before I kick you out on your ass." He started with the buttons on his work shirt. "You'd better make the other two count."

Kirishima was silent for a long moment in thought--or maybe he just wanted to watch Yokozawa strip--and when he got down to the second-to-last button, he muttered half into the pillow, "…Were you with Takano?"

He nearly ripped off his shirt, nerves tingling. "Why do you keep wasting breath on questions you already know the answers to?" He unbuckled his watch, setting it on the bedside table with a soft _thunk_ , and massaged his wrist where it had rubbed. "We had a drink. One drink."

The guarded look in Kirishima's eye told Yokozawa he had a dozen other questions he wanted to ask-- _what did you talk about? did you talk about me? did you talk about us? should I be worried? should I not be worried? did you happen to pick up a new carton of milk?_ \--but he held his tongue remarkably well. "…All right." He shifted on the bed, easing himself upright with obvious effort, and scratched at the back of his neck as he released a loud yawn before swinging his legs around to slip off the bed into a stance, legs wobbly with fatigue. "Night," he offered, settling a hand on Yokozawa's bare shoulder in passing as he made his way to the door.

To his back, Yokozawa called in wonder, "You've still got one question left."

Kirishima shrugged, tugging on the doorknob. "I'll save it for later."

"It doesn't work that way."

Kirishima glanced coolly over his shoulder, features no longer blank or even but twisted into that petulant frown he lapsed into whenever he thought Yokozawa and Hiyo were enjoying themselves too much at his expense. "…Do you regret moving in here?"

"…You really want that to be your last question?"

"It's the only one I don't know the answer to, so."

Yokozawa's brows went up, but he gave no other indication he was affected by the admission, instead crossing his arms over his chest and leaning up against the desk along the wall--before he'd moved in, this room had largely been used for storage, and even now bore marks of disuse and neglect. "…I think we should tell Hiyo."

Kirishima slid back against the door almost comically, using the wooden frame to keep himself standing up, as otherwise he likely would've slipped to the floor in shock, and after a few moments of staring at Yokozawa blankly, he muttered thickly, "That's…you didn't answer my question."

"Never said I would. Only said you were allowed to ask."

"Why…why would you now, of all times…"

"You only get three questions."

Kirishima's frown came back, and he reminded, "Well you didn't answer the last one; that's cheating."

"Like you don't twist words around to suit your fancy _all the damn time_." But he relented with a sigh, massaging the muscles at the base of his neck. "Think about how to bring it up and we'll discuss it in the morning."

"That still doesn't--"

"Because," Yokozawa snapped, pulse racing because he'd _thought_ this would be easy, that Kirishima wouldn't make a fuss, he'd just _accept it_ and _do it_ and Yokozawa wouldn't need to deal with the _why_. "Because otherwise she won't be able to make an informed decision."

" _She_ …wait, Hiyo? About what?"

"About whether or not she even _wants_ me at that damn meeting you keep harping on about."

Kirishima swallowed thickly, glancing away; he seemed to want to discuss this as little as Yokozawa did right about now. "She…she probably knows already, you know."

"Just because she picks up on hints you drop all over the place doesn't mean she understands what it _means_. And how it's going to affect her life."

Kirishima rolled his eyes. "She's 11; you think she's gonna understand that kind of shit even if we tell her?"

"You think that's any excuse for _not_ sitting her down and having a conversation about it?"

Kirishima held up his hands in defense. "You don't have to convince me; I'm fine with outlining our relationship in stark detail if you are." Yokozawa cut him a sharp glance, lips pursed in a thin line, and he added more soberly, "…And if she still wants you there?"

Yokozawa met his gaze, stalking forward slowly until he stood at arm's length, just enough distance between them that Kirishima couldn't do something stupid like reach out for a fistful of undershirt and jerk Yokozawa in for a kiss. "…Then I'll be there." Kirishima seemed to accept this, for he nodded shortly, then turned to take his leave again, fingers on the knob and clenching into a grip as Yokozawa added, "…and I don't. Regret it, that is." The line of Kirishima's back was straight and stiff, and he seemed to lean into the door again; in the back of his mind, Yokozawa silently crowed in triumph and having successfully discomfited the man twice in one evening. 

Kirishima sighed softly into the wood grain, a haggard breath. "We…we should bring it up this weekend."

"…All right."

"The meeting's on Tuesday, so…"

"I'll make sure I'm free. If necessary."

Kirishima nodded shortly, still leaning against the door, and he added in a soft admission. "…I was pissed. That you went to talk to Takano after we fought." His fingers were white-knuckled where they gripped the knob tightly, like he was only just holding himself back from charging out into the hallway. "I mean--I'm fine, really, with you still being friends, I am, just…" He banged his head lightly against the paneling, trying to shake loose his thoughts. "It's different. Like this."

Yokozawa allowed a beat of silence to pass, letting the hard-fought admission sink in, before offering, "What makes you think I didn't go talk to Onodera?" And Kirishima's head whipped around, brows furrowed in confusion which quickly melted into grudging amusement when he caught the sly, soft smile turned his way, a rare moment of Yokozawa indulging in teasing a vulnerable Kirishima--and the open expression tugged Yokozawa into action, as he leaned forward and covered Kirishima's lips with his own, grunting in admonishment when Kirishima's hand immediately snapped to his neck to hold him in place. He forced the exchange to stay low-key, chaste and proper despite Kirishima's best efforts otherwise, before pulling back just enough to allow speech, lips brushing Kirishima's own as he suggested, "…We should probably think about telling your parents, too, then."

"Shit--I told them _ages_ ago," Kirishima grunted in irritation, running his hands down Yokozawa's side and rucking up the thin undershirt separating them.

Yokozawa shot out to grip the wandering hands by the wrist, squeezing tightly in reminder. "…Good night, Kirishima-san."

"S'posed to…say that _after_ the make-up sex is--"

"Not happening tonight." He fixed a hard stare on Kirishima to be sure he was understood, before carefully relaxing his grip and taking a measured step back. "…Good night, Kirishima-san," he repeated primly.

Kirishima clenched one fist tight, then placed the other on the doorknob. "Then…that means some other night, right?"

Yokozawa shifted and turned on his heel, marching back to his mattress and flopping down lazily onto his back, eyes closed and expression serene. "Sorry; you used up your three questions already."


	38. Hunger

When he wakes, it's not to the haggard, ragged breathing in his ear or the lips pressing lazy, languid kisses to leave love bites like burns in their wake along his neck or even the hardening cock rubbing along the crease of his ass, insistently nosing for attention. It's the reach-around and the voice, low and gravely with sleep, urging, "Rise and shine, _Takafumi_ …"

And _fuck_ , the guy knows damn well how he responded to his name like that.

He's jerked into the waking world with a gasp, one hand going instinctively to his groin, where Kirishima's already working him up to a handsome erection, while the other gropes behind him to grip Kirishima's hip tight where it's pressing into him, fingers sliding in confused staccato over bare flesh as his sleep-addled mind finally catches on to the fact that while they'd gone to bed more or less clothed, Kirishima seems to have lost his pants.

It's morning--a Saturday, he thinks. Probably. Hiyo's in Kyoto for the weekend with her class--at least, he's pretty sure she is. He vaguely recalls some hazy plans to go shopping for a second bookshelf in the bedroom at some point, but he's not mentally present enough just yet to think that far into the future. All that's on his endorphin-flooded mind at the moment is Kirishima, Kirishima's hand, Yokozawa's cock, and how those three things are working in concert to keep him from lucid thought.

Kirishima's ministrations grow more practiced, gentler and more focused now that he has Yokozawa's attention, and he lazily tugs and swipes, countering each downward stroke with a needy thrust of his hips, rubbing off against the pajama bottoms still protecting Yokozawa's chastity. "Best part of waking up, eh?" he chuckles into the back of Yokozawa's neck, and when Yokozawa fails to respond, positively or otherwise, he continues with a note of worry in his voice, "…What, did I pull you out of a good dream or something?"

"Something," Yokozawa mumbles with some effort, mostly to himself, before making what is largely an id-driven decision and abruptly twisting in place, bouncing on the mattress and swinging a leg over Kirishima in one smooth movement. One hand goes up to restrain one of Kirishima's wrists, while the other he gives a quick, generous coating of saliva before working a finger inside.

Kirishima's eyes are wide and he hisses sharply in pain--or maybe just surprise--but lifts his hips up off the bed to meet Yokozawa's probing as he jerks his head to the side, eyes squinting shut. Maybe he's embarrassed to react like this--Yokozawa sure as hell is when the tables are turned--but it's a real fucking turn-on, he readily admits, so maybe he can understand the draw, the drive to deal with someone like this.

It's easy going in, Kirishima's looser than he ought to be after a couple of weeks just jerking each other off in the shower, and Yokozawa cocks his hip a hair, being sure to rub himself insistently at the inside of Kirishima's thigh to remind him what's coming. If the guy sat here for who knows how long fingering himself before giving in and waking Yokozawa up, he deserves to get what he wants with minimal lip.

Yokozawa's too half-awake at this point and running on adrenaline to properly voice his intentions anyways. Without preamble, he slides his fingers free and eases Kirishima's knees further apart as he noses in with just his hips to guide him, first the head now slick with precum and quickly followed by a glistening shaft, disappearing for only a moment, Yokozawa biting back a groan of pleasure and Kirishima just sitting there and _taking it_ , before pistoning back out, finally eliciting a gasp of reaction which Yokozawa rewards with another sharp thrust in.

He closes his eyes and ducks his head, glancing away and letting conscious thought be overtaken by sensation and instinct, an easy feat this soon after waking and this horny. Passing moments are measured in the rhythmic slap of flesh and creak of bedsprings, huffs and grunts and strangled gasps that die in their throats, electric firing of nerves and the coiling anticipation thick in the air between them that seems to urge time forward in an ever-heightening spiral up and up and up--until he reaches the peak, hips shuddering and still thrusting deep as he spills inside.

The fingers of Kirishima's free hand burn little moon-shaped half-rings in his biceps where he clings for dear life, while his other hand jerks and tugs in Yokozawa's grip, their fingers very nearly laced. He thrusts upward in time with Yokozawa and rubs himself insistently against Yokozawa's stomach, a few practiced passes all he needs before his own release follows with a choking groan, warm and sticky between them.

Yokozawa pulls out with a grimace before rolling back down onto his back, silent but for the deep inhalations he's forced to take after such exertion, and for a few long moments, there is peace in the room.

"…What was that for?"

It's not accusing; far from it, Kirishima sounds almost amused, impressed even, and somehow that grates more than genuine admonishment might have. The guy sure knows how to ruin a moment. "…Just felt like it," he grudgingly allows, opting not to elaborate, because there isn't really much else to say. It's pretty self-explanatory.

Kirishima snorts softly, then shrugs to himself, content. "Fine by me." The bed shifts slightly as Yokozawa tilts his head just far enough to the side to glimpse Kirishima's expression out of the corner of his eye--but the guy pretty much always looks like that after sex, so this isn't very revealing.

Something grates, though, still, and after much mental ado, he finally grinds out, "…Why'd you let me do that?" The words are stiff and stilted, like they weigh down his tongue and numb his lips, and he supposes this is because he doesn't quite know how Kirishima's going to respond--and he hates walking into situations like that. Kirishima's already enough of a handful, for better or worse, when Yokozawa _does_ know what to expect from him; when he can't read the guy? That's a whole different issue altogether.

He hadn't done it because it was _fair_ or anything--like it was _his turn_ to fuck Kirishima; they stopped keeping score (or Yokozawa had, at least) years ago, and they've developed a nice balance now. Yokozawa feels like he's finally reached the point in their relationship where he really doesn't give a fuck 9 times out of 10 what position he's in, so long as it involves Kirishima in some way--and he's pretty sure that's how it's supposed to be, so that helps make it easier to stomach. 

But then there are days…mornings like this, where it's not because he's horny or anything (though that certainly helps), it's just--he forgets for a moment that he's not supposed to give Kirishima exactly what he wants all the time, because the guy's needy and whiny enough as it is and he's got to keep him in check, forgets that Kirishima's supposed to be the one in the relationship who takes without explicitly asking all the time, just _expecting_ his partner to go along with whatever he suggests or make reasonable protests otherwise.

He starts, jolted from his mental acrobatics by fingers threading through his now sweat-slick hair before lightly flicking him across the forehead to dispel what is likely a handsome new furrow forming between his brows. "You think I'm ever going to turn down a solicitation for sex from you?"

Yokozawa just rolls his eyes at the thankfully predictable answer, and Kirishima laughs a loud harsh bark and rolls onto his side, swinging his legs around to hang off the mattress. He groans as he stands on shaky legs, voice pinched, "Fuck--I think a long soak in the tub's in order now…" He swipe a finger across the remains of their joining still evident on his belly and wrinkles his nose. "…but maybe a rinse in the shower first."

Eyeing him warily, Yokozawa follows up with, "If it's such a pain in the ass--" Kirishima's lip curls into a grin at the pun, "--why'd you let me do it?"

Kirishima shuffles into the adjoining bathroom, pulling down a towel from the little cupboard over the sink. "You wanted to, didn't you?"

Yokozawa grimaces as he maneuvers himself up into a sitting position, letting the sheets pool about his waist. He's still half out of his pants--but there's little point in making himself decent when he's about to join Kirishima here. "…Obviously," he responds shortly. No sense in overstating, and at this, Kirishima turns, towel draped over one arm and just barely granting him modesty.

"…I like it when you're honest like that. So of course I'll let you." He adds with an amazed chuckle, as if he can't believe this is even an issue, "I'll let you every damn time."

And after the lightness in his chest settles down and his heart rate returns to normal with the confession, Yokozawa's padding into the bathroom behind Kirishima, grumbling in an effort to reinstate the snarky give and take he's grown accustomed to in their relationship, "Maybe if you picked and chose your moments more judiciously, you'd get to enjoy that thrilling experience more frequently." 

Kirishima pauses, half in the shower stall to reach the faucet, before glancing over his shoulder with that familiar mischievous grin. "Nah; then I'd miss the chance to enjoy your adorable indignation."


	39. Soul

You used to think there was no such thing as ‘soul mates’, that it was just some elegant tripe the likes of Emerald came up with to make girls' hearts go pitter-patter and maybe in doing so sell a few more print issues. Soul mates were what confirmed bachelors and lifelong spinsters told themselves they just hadn't met yet to try and ease the sting--they were just waiting for the right person, that was all, and if that person didn't waltz into their lives in a timely fashion, well then that was plain old bad luck.

You never believed in luck either, though; you're a self-made man who worked his way up with time and effort, and if you'd ever had any luck, you certainly wouldn't have found yourself sitting all alone on top of a 30-year mortgage on a 3LDK with a 2-year-old. So luck was out--as was fate and destiny and all that pre-determined shit.

Life was what it was, and sometimes you found someone who made it all a little more tolerable, and sometimes you lost them to the ravages of disease and time on a body that you'd thought you'd lie next to for the rest of your life--when it turned out to be just the rest of _theirs_.

But then that was before you sat in on a meeting with Katou while he went head to head with the newest greenhorn from sales and soundly watched one of your most reliable editors get talked down to a pittance of the quota you'd expected you'd walk away with. You would've been pissed as all _get out_ if you hadn't been so damned overwhelmed with admiration, and you're a little ashamed now that you couldn't wait even a week to get in there and lock horns with the guy yourself, stealing a one-shot omnibus from a no-name author off of Hitomi just for an excuse to see with your own eyes what this 'wild bear of Marukawa' was really made of.

He's made of tough stuff, you've realized over the years--maybe you're carved from the same stone, even. Maybe that's what they mean when they talk about being 'made for each other'. You're not entirely sure, but you're pretty certain you don't care--because it's all bullshit either way. What you do know is that he's experienced loss in much the same way you have--except you at least got to be loved _back_ , and he never even got that much.

You don't pity him or feel sorry for him--and you hope he doesn't feel any of that for you--because what's done is done, and no amount of empathy's going to change where you've found yourselves right now. And that's just fine; he's better off with someone who loves him as fiercely as he loves back, and you…you're doing pretty damn good these days, because there was a hole inside you that's full to the brim now which you never even knew was _there_ 'til he dropped snugly into it.

You'd thought it'd always just be you and Hiyo, two against the world, because you didn't have the time or energy to date anyone outside of your field, and office romances aren't your thing. Yet here you are, still with that mortgage and that 2-year-old (all right, maybe she's a _little_ older now) and for a life that never felt _wrong_ or _incomplete_ before, it sure as hell feels surprisingly fulfilling now.

You're reminded of people saying that finding your soul mate feels like finding your other half, the person that makes you whole, and you wonder--humoring them--if the same holds true even if you never realized you were missing anything.

You started maybe, kind of, possibly, just a little believing in the concept of soul mates the first time you didn't have to wheedle a date out of him. You realize now that you did still kind of _guilt_ him into hanging out with you, even when you weren't pretty much outright blackmailing him, and he probably would've attempted to weasel out of your dinner date through any means necessary if he hadn't let slip those movie details (which you were never all _that_ distraught over)--but out of context, the way he'd just stood there, penitent and red-faced and vulnerable (fuck, you like him proud, but you _love_ him humble), a thought flashed through your mind, _'I could get used to this.'_

A guy like that, with that large a stick up his ass brought that low, just because of a careless error? You're surprised you didn't call up your mother and ask her to drag Hiyo out of class and up to the office to shove her in his face right then and there.

Hiyo had been what sealed it, though. Maybe it had taken him a while to come to grips with his feelings for you--hell, you're pretty sure he's still working on it in some respects--but you…no, you'd lost the game the moment Hiyo clapped eyes on him and called him her _Oniichan_. In the course of a single meal, you went from piqued interest to _fuck is it too soon to ask him to marry me?_ and even now, you're at perpetual attention on some level the moment he walks into a room. And he'll grudgingly tell you he respects you, even that he thinks you're _cool_ , but you're pretty sure all that would fly out the window if he ever caught on to just how much you come undone whenever he so much as says your name.

And that's just pathetic for a man your age, so you'd started warming up to this idea of soul mates, because then at least you had an excuse.

But with passing time, you're realizing that maybe there really _is_ something to what you'd chalked up to little more than romantic bull, because how else are you supposed to explain how he makes you feel like a lovestruck teenager with as innocuous a question as, "You coming to bed?" or how your heart nearly chokes you as it leaps into your throat when you catch him unconsciously fingering that stupid ring he and Hiyo bought for the three of you at Kuma Park? It's either menopause or punch-drunk love you're feeling overwhelmed with, and the lack of proper bits means it must be the latter. 

Maybe it's the thrill of secrecy--but then, Hiyo knows, so that doesn't really make a lot of sense--or maybe it's the way your emotions aren't choked at the neck with a reminder that _you don't have much time left_ , letting you be as generous and unrestrained in your affections as you want. Maybe it's the fact that every shitty turn both your lives has taken has led, in a roundabout way, to the two of you sharing this time and space together, and it's that rush of _meant to be_ \--the kind of stuff you don't put stock in--that leaves you lightheaded enough that you start entertaining ideas that you and Yokozawa Takafumi are soul mates.

If you'd never fallen in love with someone who was always going to leave you longing, if he'd never fallen in love with someone who was always going to belong to someone else, if you'd let Katou handle his own print-run decision meetings, if he'd ducked his head and let his seniors take the lead on the negotiation, if you'd told him upfront you'd just seen him to bed and not bedded him like he suspected, if he'd ever called your bluff and made you show your hand--a thousand ways your relationship could be a world away from what it is now, and each one of them sends a new little chill down your spine, because you don't want to live in any world where things aren't exactly how they are, where you aren't _okay fine_ fucking _soul mates_ , people brought together against all odds because that's how fate or destiny or whatever you want to call it has deemed things should be, people who are _perfectly matched_ , despite all appearances.

You're positive if you ever suggested the notion to him, he'd roll his eyes, give you a sharp _Huh?_ and tell you it's rude to get drunk without him, but you also know that the idea would stick in his mind, burrowing down and planting itself in his subconscious, because he's sharp, he _thinks_ about things, and if it's gotten to the point where even _you're_ having trouble denying it, he must be going crazy on the inside, telling himself it's ridiculous, that it's coincidence, that you're just trying to rile him up. And maybe you would be, if you ever voiced your suspicions--because that's another world you don't want to live in: a world where you and Yokozawa are addled saps who actually believe in shit like _soul mates_ , even if you _do_ live it every day.


	40. Hide

Yokozawa cursed under his breath and frowned at the softly glowing screen of his cell phone, squinting his eyes and bringing it closer on the off chance he'd misread the text. "That asshole…only _just_ now leaving the office? I told him 5 pm." He glanced over at the couch, hoping for some measure of support from the girl who sat snuggled up in one corner, her nose buried in a book. "Did we not tell him 5 pm?"

"On the dot," she allowed, unruffled and not looking up from her reading, and she calmly turned a page without elaboration.

Yokozawa huffed his irritation, growling under his breath, and dropped his phone into his pocket, casting a quick glance around the kitchen and nodding in satisfaction to himself--pots bubbling (but not bubbling over) on the stove, four bowls of sweet custard cooling in the fridge, salad hopefully not wilting on the table, and only fifteen minutes left for the final member of their family to show up before they risked starting off this whole affair on the wrong foot.

After all, it wasn't every day you met your kind-of adopted daughter's first _serious_ boyfriend for the first time.

"You're fidgeting, Oniichan," Hiyori chided, amusement laced in her voice, and her eyes flicked up from her book. "He'll be here."

"Of course he will; he knows I'll chew him out if he's not," Yokozawa replied snippily, but he forced himself to stop pacing and instead joined her at the other end of the couch, willing his knee to stop bouncing. "It's bad manners not to be on time for an engagement, though."

"He'll be on time, too," she reminded confidently, then added, "…Or _I'll_ chew him out." Yokozawa threw a glance her way, lips quirking up when he caught her smiling, obviously pleased with herself.

"Well with that hanging over his head, I can't imagine he'd dawdle too long." She shook her head, and after an awkward silent pause, Yokozawa pressed, nerves in his voice, "…So uh, this kid…"

"Hasegawa-kun."

"This Hasegawa kid--he's…what, your age, yeah?"

"I _told_ you already," she reminded with an affected huff, snapping her book shut and setting it on the couch arm. "Gosh, Oniichan--don't you pay attention when I talk about important things like your future son-in-law?"

" _My_ \--" he started to sputter, then caught the glint in her eye that had clearly been inherited from her father and took a breath. "That--you and your father, I _swear_ …" He crossed his arms and settled back against the cushions. "Going to worry me into an early grave between the two of you." Hiyori just beamed, girlish giggles seeping out and making her seem younger than her 14 years.

"Maybe we'd stop giving you such a hard time if you'd stop being so adorable in the way you overreact?" she offered, not sounding all that penitent at all.

Yokozawa scoffed. "Yeah, right. I've heard _that one_ before." He raked a glance over her. "And--stop calling me adorable. It's irritating enough when Zen-san does it."

"Yessir~" she apologized in sing-song, taking a moment to smooth out the wrinkles in her skirt and brush a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

Yokozawa took her in, trying to see her through eyes not accustomed to being in her presence most every day for the past three years--and saw the gawky, gangly 10-year-old who'd blossomed into a slender, proper 14-year-old, burnished locks inherited from her father drawn up into a high ponytail with a hair band she'd wheedled out of Yokozawa for her birthday guarding against flyaways. She'd made the custard all on her own and asked Yokozawa for tips on making her own salad dressing, so while the meal they were about to enjoy was most certainly going to be awkward as hell, her deft hand in the kitchen ensured it would at least be delicious. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Yokozawa recalled a conversation from years past when he and Kirishima had--then jokingly--discussed Hiyori's hypothetical eventual wedding, and while dinner with her new beau was hardly an engagement party, it was nevertheless a big step. She'd never brought anyone home before, not anyone other than casual friends at least, so that she wanted the two of them to meet this boy, to _approve_ of him and in turn to have him _understand_ how their family functioned…it was a big deal. 

Yokozawa swallowed thickly. "You…Hasegawa-kun, have you…" He waffled, then grit his teeth and barreled through, "…have you already told him about--you know. Us?"

She jerked her gaze over to him, immediately alert, but her smile was placid, lip curling up at one corner. "You and Papa?" She only ever called him that in Yokozawa's presence these days, unwilling to relinquish the affectation in private despite deriding it as childish in public. "…Yes," she allowed, failing to keep from waxing into a full-blown grin. "Why--were you nervous?"

"I-- _no_ ," he quickly snapped. "But--we would've looked like fools trying to broach the subject if he already knew."

She rolled her eyes and twisted around, folding her knees up onto the couch. "There's nothing to _broach_ \--it's not a big deal." He lifted a brow knowingly, and she shrugged. "'S never been a big deal to me, at least."

"Yeah, but you're your father's daughter," Yokozawa quipped softly, shifting out of the way when she tried to shove him with one bare foot. "Which is to say--the both of you take in stride situations that would give others pause. And it's not a _bad_ thing necessarily--but you're hardly accurate metrics to evaluate others' reactions by."

She wrinkled her nose. "Well if he'd reacted badly, I certainly wouldn't be inviting him over, now would I?"

And she had a point, which relaxed the tension across Yokozawa's shoulders a hair. "…No, no you wouldn't." Eyeing her with some curiosity now, he hazarded, "…So then, how _did_ you bring it up?"

She shrugged. "Asked him if he was free on Saturday and invited him over to meet my father and Oniichan." Yokozawa's brows drew together--if _that_ was how she'd introduced him, there was definitely going to be some confusion--but Hiyori stopped him before he could open his mouth with one hand held up, " _And_ when he said he never knew I had a brother, I told him it was what I called my father's lover." She was watching him carefully, and Yokozawa steeled himself so as not to crack under her attention. "…He seemed to get it, then."

"A…ah…" He nodded, mostly to rid himself of the pent-up energy inside. Years into their relationship and this still wasn't easy; they'd told Hiyori, they'd told Kirishima's parents, they'd had a rather awkward discussion with Yokozawa's parents, they'd told Masamune, hell--even _Yukina_ was in on it now, so what harm was it telling some 14-year-old twerp that Hiyo had her eye on? Never mind that it just felt _weird_ having Hiyori describe their relationship to third parties, or that given what a gossip Yuki-chan had grown into, the whole school probably knew about their situation by now, so the point was moot. It was just--the _principle_ of the thing.

She cocked her head, voice filled with mock concern. "…Should I have said you were Papa's boyfriend?" He cut her a sharp look, and she melted into a grin. "He didn't mind, Oniichan. It won't be weird." She then added with a pointed glance, "Unless you _make_ it weird."

"I don't really think I'm the one you need be concerned will make a scene," Yokozawa groused, glancing at his watch; 7 minutes to go. If this Hasegawa kid showed up early, they were screwed.

At the other end of the couch, Hiyori shifted off and stood up, stretching tall to work the kinks from her joints as she prepared to greet their impending guest. "Well--just know that no matter what, I really wanted him to meet you." Yokozawa just _hmm_ ed in agreement--it sucked when your own kind-of kid had to try and make you feel better about a situation you'd put her in in the first place. "I'm serious," she added more soberly, shuffling over to stand in front of him. "Everyone wants to introduce the person they like to the people they love, right?" She placed a hand on his shoulder and bent down to look him in the eye. "Isn't that why Papa introduced us?"

Yokozawa snorted softly, allowing after a moment, "…When'd you get so smart?"

"Got it from my Oniichan," she replied with a wink, then started at a rattling from the door--which quickly broke the tension in the room when Kirishima shuffled inside, face red from the jog he surely must have broken into to get here so quickly. "Father! You were almost too late!"

"Almost--but not quite," Kirishima reminded cheekily, brows lifting when he caught Yokozawa's eye. "Took a taxi from the office just to be safe."

"Shouldn't have gone in _period_ if you ask me," Yokozawa muttered, holding one hand out to take Kirishima's briefcase from him. Saturday wasn't a workday, and surely the author could've waited another 48 hours to go over his panels, right? Family should be first priority.

Kirishima shrugged as if to say what can you do? "He's a newbie who needed his hand held; you weren't always the dashing, competent salesman of today, right? And I had time, so I helped him out." 

Yokozawa simply rolled his eyes and let Hiyori tear into him while he put away the briefcase in their bedroom. On returning, he caught Kirishima popping an olive from the salad into his mouth. "What's the kid's name?"

"Hasegawa-kun," Yokozawa and Hiyori chimed in at the same time--and as if on cue, the doorbell rang, prompting a tiny squeak of surprise from Hiyori as she whirled around, her skirt flaring up around her.

Yokozawa snorted softly before nudging her in the back, reminding her it was rude to keep guests waiting, and off she dashed down the hall toward the entryway. He glanced over at Kirishima out of the corner of his eye, gauging his reaction, and was strangely comforted to see his gaze fixed not on the door leading from the dining area into the entryway but on the very uninteresting stack of plates he'd been just about to set the table with.

Listing to the side, Yokozawa bumped their shoulders together with a soft, "Hey," which earned him a _Hm?_ in response but no further reaction. He rested a hand gently just at the small of Kirishima's back to be sure he had his attention, pleased at the shudder he felt ripple up the man's spine. "You gonna make a scene?"

"Asshole." His brooding mien was starting to crack.

"Break out into tears?"

A grin. "Fuck you."

"Want me to get the box of tissues off our nightstand?"

Kirishima whipped his head around to catch him off guard, ducking in quickly to brush their lips together, and because Yokozawa had kind of been hoping he'd resort to such displays, he boldly stood his ground and accepted it with only a muffled protest and a sharp brace of his palm against Kirishima's chest to place space between them again.

"It's dinner with a kid from her class. You're not giving her away."

Kirishima's grin turned soft, then a little sad. "…I know, just…" He turned back to the plates, giving a soft _oof_ as he lifted them off the couch and toddled into the dining area. "I wish I could handle this with as much grace as you."

"Grace?" Yokozawa snorted incredulously, following up close behind with silverware. "Your eyesight must really be going if you think I ever handle jack _shit_ with grace." The sound of muffled speech from the hallway drifted around the corner as Hiyori and her guest approached, and Yokozawa dropped his voice, "But the both of us should try to keep it together for her sake, today."

Kirishima allowed a bit of mischief to seep back into his smile here. "So--good cop, bad cop?"

"I think the simple fact that she has two fathers will be enough to keep the kid in line."

"Point," Kirishima granted, adding with feigned disappointment, "Though I'll admit I've been looking forward to you kicking some punk kid's ass for years now."

And maybe he had, or maybe he hadn't--but Yokozawa didn't have a chance to press him on the issue or offer so much as a witty retort, because suddenly they had company and needed to _not_ scare off the first boy Hiyori had deemed worthy of meeting them, and while Kirishima might cut things close or try and wheedle Yokozawa into donning the _wild bear of Marukawa_ mantle just for an evening, to be sure Hasegawa didn't try 'any funny stuff', they both knew that Hiyori was probably the best judge of character between the three of them.

"After all," Kirishima reminded him softly as Hiyori bid farewell to Hasegawa at the door, "She let me know I'd found a good thing in you."


	41. Shadow

" _Otsukare~_ " they chorused together, gently clinking twin foaming mugs to avoid spilling any and instead dumping the contents down their parched throats.

After a few moments' silence as they each took long draws, Yokozawa settled his mug back on the table between them with a satisfied sigh, shivering slightly as the cool beer chilled him from the inside out. The tepid evenings and brisk mornings of spring had all-too-quickly given way to oppressive heat, dawn to dusk, characteristic of early summer, so to be able to settle down and rest one's bones in an izakaya like this was, in itself, a blessing--the company only improved the experience.

"I haven't been out for a beer in ages," Yukina sighed, smiling into the lip of his mug and wiping away the foam mustache with the back of his hand as he settled back against his chair, grinning like a loon. "It's different out of the tap--cans and bottles on the couch at home just can't compare!"

Yokozawa chuckled gruffly in agreement and took another gulp. "It's easy to go stir-crazy choking down pre-packaged crap all the time." Grimacing as he swallowed, he added, "But I don't think I could handle doing this every night like I used to…"

Yukina snorted, waving a finger in his face. "What're you suggesting, Yokozawa-san? You're not that much older than me."

"Hey, the years take their toll harder the older you get." He rubbed his stomach. "The spirit is willing, but the flesh…"

_Hmm_ ing softly, Yukina commented idly, "I suppose it's important to watch your health--you're out and about an awful lot, after all."

A nod. "But a drink with a friend now and then certainly isn't going to hurt anything." He gave a sharp nod in Yukina's direction. "What about you? You sure it's okay to ditch your scrawny shadow for the evening?"

Yukina tittered in a manner entirely inappropriate for a young man his age, and Yokozawa raised a brow. "I didn't ditch him--and he wasn't shadowing me; I invited him to come down and check out the display I put up over the weekend. You remember, the _star-crossed lovers_ one?"

Yokozawa nodded after a moment's consideration; the _Marimo_ main branch was all the time hosting campaigns and sales events that had next to nothing to do with any one particular publisher, so Yokozawa had long since given up on keeping up with what new flashy display the employees had been conned into putting together. But Marukawa had received formal contact from the bookstore--likely along with the likes of Onodera Shuppan and other publishing houses--requesting any back stock of titles fitting the chosen theme this time around, so the campaign had definitely come up on his radar. 

Yukina cradled his mug in both hands, seeming to soak in the chill off the thick glass. "By chance, one of Shouta-san's older pieces happened to fit the brief quite nicely, so I thought he might like to see it on display."

"Mmm, 'by chance', was it?" Yokozawa teased, one brow raised in suspicion.

Yukina huffed in mock offense. "Come now, Yokozawa-san, you know I'd never…" and Yokozawa couldn't help but chuckle, because in truth, he _did_ know Yukina was a better man than that; besides, with Yukina's looks and charm, Yokozawa doubted he needed to resort to such tactics to goad anyone into bed with him. Yukina pursed his lips, aware he was being played with. "I don't play favorites, even with Shouta-san's works."

"So it's just sheer coincidence his shit sells three times as well at your store as any other branch in the Tokyo metropolitan area?" But the quirk to his lips reminded Yukina he was only joking.

"It's not my fault he's an amazing editor whose works perfectly suit my tastes," Yukina reasoned stiffly, taking another swig from his mug. "Perhaps you ought to be chiding him for attempting to appeal to me in an effort to ensure I continue to promote Marukawa sales."

Yokozawa snorted. "Pretty sure you two have a more immediately concerning conflict of interest going on already." Yukina, not one to typically be thrown by such implications, flushed deeply--and Yokozawa waved a hand to clear the air. "I'm only joking; I know you're a straight shooter." 

Yukina frowned. "Half a beer in and you're already teasing me? I'm not sure if that's a good or a bad sign..."

Yokozawa grimaced through a huffed chuckle. "Nah…just--trying to take my mind off of things for a while. Isn't that what going out drinking is for?"

"I'm not certain that's what it's _supposed_ to be for, but I'll grant that's what it's often used for."

"Touché." He traced the mouth of his mug with one finger, staring down into the frothy amber liquid. "You, uh…" A cough; there was no delicate way to broach this subject. "You and Kisa, you…" Yukina's brows quirked upward--and for good reason. To tease Yukina was one thing; it was easy to skirt around his relationship with Emerald's little flirt in the guise of joking and camaraderie. But to actually step right into the thick of it, voluntarily--well, it wasn't something Yokozawa very much liked to do, especially when he was ostensibly supposed to be relaxing with a friend after a hard day's work. "You're, uh…shacking up together, yeah?"

"Shacking…" Yukina's brows furrowed for a moment before his face lit up with understanding. "Ah--living together, you mean?" Yokozawa made a mumble of assent, and Yukina interpreted this as his response, cheerily returning, "Mm, yes--for several months now. I thought you knew…"

He trailed off, curious and obviously waiting for Yokozawa to explain himself--which was easier said than done. Yukina was Yukina, a flashy, showy part-timer working the shoujo manga shelves of one of the biggest bookshops in Tokyo--though for how much longer was anyone's guess; his graduation from art school was imminent, as Yokozawa understood it. The point was, the guy was far more comfortable in his skin and all that was attached to it than anyone in his position had a right to be--but then, Yokozawa supposed that was what you got when you'd been instilled with confidence over the years that came with the kind of looks Yukina had been blessed with. What he saw in a self-loathing little shrimp like Kisa was beyond him, but perhaps that was Yukina's single flaw: horrific taste in relationship partners.

So maybe he thought discussing the sordid details of said relationship was perfect bar chatter--never mind that Yokozawa had brought it up in the first place--or maybe he just didn't give a shit, because he seemed perpetually on cloud nine. The fact remained that Yokozawa _did_ have issues being circumspect about these kinds of things. That Yukina was really the only viable source of advice he had on these matters--he'd learned the hard way not to ask Masamune for relationship advice--couldn't be helped.

"Yeah, yeah--I…I knew," he offered quickly to allay any concerns, before following up with a hand massaging the back of his neck and a muttered. "I just…was wondering, is all."

"About?"

Yukina sure as hell wasn't going to make this easy--and there was no stepping around the matter. "I mean--you've been living with someone else for a while--" A nod. "--so…you ever, I dunno, get irritated about anything? Any annoying shit you just can't get past?" He licked his lips. "You ever…regret moving in with him?"

Yukina's expression fell blank as Yokozawa trailed off, not even sure if he'd gotten his point across sufficiently--he wouldn't blame the guy for not understanding what he was getting at, to be honest. He _liked_ Yukina, liked having someone easy to talk to without all of the _slept together and pined after for years_ baggage that still made broaching some subjects difficult with people like Masamune. And Kirishima-san was great for the casual conversations, but Yokozawa could hardly be expected to discuss their relationship with the only other person in it--only _not_ -fucked-up couples did that kind of stuff.

And maybe that was why he had these problems in the first place; maybe if he and Kirishima-san wouldn't wait until they were both stressing out over what amounted to nothing at all, they wouldn't find themselves in situations like this, where Kirishima was badgering him with varying degrees of seriousness to pack up and put down roots at his place, where Yokozawa spent half his time sleeping at their place and the other half storming out in bitten-back rage and frustration. Hiyori, the poor thing, likely hadn't a clue what had her "Papa and Oniichan" on edge these past few weeks, and to explain why would only lead to more questions and conversations that would have to be had _some_ day but _dear god please not right now not yet_.

"…Yes. Yes. And no, never," was Yukina's measured reply, his expression softening as he stared out over the crowd filling the bar. "To answer your question."

Yokozawa blinked a few times in slow repetition, fingers clenched tight around his mug. "…Ah, I see."

"Would you like some clarification?"

"I already find Kisa annoying as shit; I can use my imagination."

"Wouldn't you like to know why I don't regret living with him, then?"

"Not if it's gonna be mushy."

"Then why did you ask?" It was patently clear Yukina had easily divined why he'd asked; now the guy was just turning the tables on him in revenge for Yokozawa's earlier teasing. "I thought friends were honest with one another?"

"It's not--" he started, voice sharp, and quickly softened his tone and lowered his voice. "It's not--that simple. I'm not here for a therapy session." He raised his mug. "Just wanted a drink, that's all."

"I see…" Yukina allowed with a nod, then continued on as if Yokozawa hadn't spoken at all. "It's because I love him, of course."

" _You--_ " Yokozawa slammed the mug back down and massaged his temples with both hands. "I didn't _ask_ …"

"Yes you did."

"It was a _yes or no_ question; I didn't want you to _elaborate_."

"Then how would you be able to determine if it was really wise of you to move in with Kirishima-san or not?"

He snapped his gaze up, instantly sober. "I never said I was--" But Yukina inclined his head knowingly, brows lifted, and Yokozawa gave in because it was going to be a long evening and he was already exhausted. Putting up pretenses was only worth it in front of people who gave a shit about who you slept with. "Our situation's nothing like yours."

"Mm, perhaps," Yukina granted with a subtle nod, swirling the dregs of his beer and glancing up to flag the bartender for another. "But you obviously thought there was _some_ measure of similarity--or else you wouldn't have asked." He grinned. "Unless you were truly concerned about how things are between us?"

Yokozawa flushed, not sure if he was more embarrassed at being caught actively seeking romantic advice or at the suggestion that he was remotely curious or worried about Yukina's personal life. "'S none of my or anyone else's damn business, so long as Marukawa titles keep flying off the shelves."

One of the waitstaff settled two fresh mugs between them before bustling back toward the kitchen. "Very Yokozawa-san-esque of you," Yukina chuckled, reaching for the mug nearest him. "But…it really is just that simple for me."

Yokozawa snorted. "Figures."

"I'm sorry matters are so different for me."

"Nah--it's not your fault." He finished off his first mug and pushed it aside for pick-up. "But I'm afraid my situation's a little more complicated."

"Because of Hiyori-chan?"

Yokozawa grimaced. "Well, yeah, but…I mean, obviously there's _that_ to consider--" Where 'consider' meant 'wrack his brains over and struggle with guilt that acting on his own selfish emotional desires meant potentially wrecking this poor kid's childhood and setting her up for ridicule that might well follow her for the rest of her life'. "--it's just a big step, y'know?"

Yukina nodded, commiserating. "It's…hardly a sudden suggestion though, yes?"

"Hardly" was putting it lightly; Kirishima had been trying to wheedle him into moving in and playing house together since two weeks into their relationship; now, a year-plus in, he'd reduced the frequency but escalated the imploring inherent in his entreaties--it was less idle goading at this point and more a serious plea for consideration, and _that_ changed things. To continue refusing or avoid even discussing the matter to any serious extent sent worrying signals, and Yokozawa was reaching a point where he couldn't pass it off as simply his own prickly nature attempting to avoid confrontation.

The very fact that Yokozawa was sitting on his ass here attempting to interrogate Yukina about his own living situation with his usual flair for subtlety was testament enough to the desperate state he was in: he needed someone to tell him to get his act together and just _make a decision_ \--a decision which ostensibly was already made, because if he turned Kirishima-san down now, when _was_ he going to move in with the guy? And if he didn't have any intention of ever doing so, then what the hell were they doing? Was he going to content himself his entire life spending every Friday evening with the Kirishimas? Was _Kirishima-san_ going to accept that? He hated _not_ having a choice, and the lack of any viable alternative was certainly doing nothing to help his case.

Yukina watched him carefully, silently taking in his mental struggle without judgment. "You know, if you're truly this torn, shouldn't you be discussing this with Kirishima-san, and not me?" Yokozawa threw him a dirty look, and Yukina huffed a soft chuckle. "…Yes, yes, of course you understand that. My apologies." He traced figures in the condensation of his mug. "I only meant…I mean, do you really think Shouta-san and I just decided on a whim to move in together? Do you think _anyone_ approaches this kind of decision lightly? And that's _without_ the added burden--adorable though she may be--of a child to consider."

The tension across Yokozawa's shoulders relaxed a hair. "So…how'd you go about it, then?"

"Well--I can't speak for Shouta-san of course, but for me, it was simply a matter of asking myself how satisfied I truly was only having him to myself on the odd days I could work him into my schedule. Then on realizing that I saw time with him as something I was _scheduling_ , it was quite easy to conclude that I didn't want that to be how I treated our relationship." He shrugged nonchalantly. "Even if all we ever had time for was 'good morning' and 'good night', I wanted to be able to say it in person, to his face, and not merely in an e-mail or over the phone."

Yokozawa _hmphed_ and tapped a finger against the thick glass of his mug. "What'd I tell you about getting mushy on me?" And Yukina ducked his head, a proud flush to his cheeks that was easily disguised as his simply getting tipsy from the booze.

"Time, Yokozawa-san. That was what I wanted, and that was why I made my decision. I imagine Shouta-san felt similar, if I had to guess." He raked a glance over Yokozawa here. "Perhaps you should consider what it is _you_ want before tackling what's obviously an important decision of your own?"

Yokozawa regarded him for a long moment before averting his gaze to stare down into his mug--concluded at length that it really was one hell of a loss to society at large that someone so beautiful and incisive would likely not be passing his genes on to any future generations.

* * *

"You reek," Kirishima-san grunted, helping Yokozawa not trip over his feet when he finally dragged himself up to the apartment later that evening. He ducked to tuck his shoulder under Yokozawa's arm, slinging his own up and around to steady him. "Smells like you and Yukina had a good time, at least…"

"Don't gotta be jealous jus' cause I went drinking with someone else." He twisted to brush his free palm across Kirishima's cheek, muttering as affectionately as he could without slurring his words, "I'll only ever pass out from booze with you."

"Comforting, that," Kirishima-san huffed, guiding him through the living room and chiding him when he accidentally kicked over Kirishima-san's briefcase, scattering papers. "You're hardly setting a good example for Hiyo, you know."

Yokozawa grimaced--he definitely knew; it was why they never drank with her around. "She's asleep at least, right?"

They struggled over the threshold into the little guest room Yokozawa occupied most weekends. "It's nearly midnight; weekend or not, I'm a man with a firm belief in bedtimes for pre-teens."

He snorted inelegantly, reasoning petulantly, "You just want her asleep so you can jump me."

"Damn--and here I was hoping you'd be too drunk to see through my clever plots…" With some effort, he managed to turn Yokozawa around to let him settled down on the edge of the mattress, helping to ease his jacket from his shoulders. "But you've long since passed 'fun tipsy', so I'll let you off the hook tonight." Yokozawa reached up to grip him tight about one wrist, sliding his fingers up and over the sensitive skin to lay over his palm, threading their fingers together. "…Yokozawa?"

"I think…I know what I want."

Kirishima raised a brow slowly. "…Dare I hope it's something kinky?"

It was a testament to how far gone Yokozawa was that he actually found this amusing, and one side of his mouth quirked up into a hesitant smile. "I'll probably forget it by morning, though--so I'll tell you, and you can remind me later."

"Mm, perhaps I should write this down."

"Shut up, asshole, I'm saying something important here," he whined, sliding his hands up Kirishima's arms and over the thin work shirt he still wore, tugging insistently to bring him down close. "You should listen to me."

"I wait with bated breath."

"I want you--and Hiyo--for better or worse and all that stupid shit."

"I should definitely write this down."

"In sickness and in health--"

"Does _drunk off your ass_ count?"

"--for richer or poorer--"

"Easy for you to say; I'm the breadwinner in this relationship. You're obviously getting the better deal here."

"--until death--"

But he was stopped this time by a hand over his mouth and Kirishima's torn visage, and after a long moment of silence, Kirishima whispered soberly, "…Don't say that last part."

"…All right." And for once, maybe because of the booze, he didn't argue the point. Maybe it was better not to give himself an out, after all. He swallowed thickly and eventually found his voice again. "…You got all that?" A nod. "…Good, cause I'm tired now. Get the fuck out of my room."

Kirishima didn't try to stop him as he slumped onto his back and began to rub at his eyes sleepily, just standing tall and straight and staring down at him. "…So, does this mean we should exchange rings or…?"

He waved him off. "Ask me in the morning."

"Around about when I also remind you that you just pledged marriage to me? Oh yes, I'm sure that will go over just great."

And he probably had a point, but that was for Sober Yokozawa to handle; Drunk Yokozawa had just had a pleasant evening drinking steadily stronger liquors with one of his--strangely enough--closest friends and had finally figured out one of the big things he wanted out of life. That was a fairly productive evening in anyone's book.


	42. Sing

Kirishima whistled lowly, lips quirking up into a sly grin at the corners, and he brushed a finger lightly over a burnished placard, mouthing the words to himself. "Participation trophy for a choral contest?" He glanced over his shoulder, brows lifting when he caught Yokozawa watching him like a hawk, obviously ready to step in and make sure Kirishima didn't stick his nose where it didn't belong. "I didn't realize you did anything else with that mouth besides kiss, bitch, and fellate."

He didn't miss the subtle twitch Yokozawa gave at the accusation, a clear indicator that he was more ruffled than he wanted to let on. "You wanna say that a little louder? I'm not sure my 80-year-old great-aunt two prefectures away heard you."

Kirishima shrugged, humoring him. "Pretty sure your folks are gonna find out one way or another."

Yokozawa crossed his arms and kept his mien serious, shifting in place to keep facing Kirishima as he wandered about the room, following bodily wherever his eye was drawn. "That doesn't given you license to go into _graphic detail_ about shit."

Kirishima squinted, trying to pick out a 10-year-old Yokozawa from a class portrait hanging on his wall. "That wasn't graphic detail. It was an idle comment. If you want graphic detail, I can certainly obli--"

A knock, and Hiyo poked her head inside tentatively, growing bolder with widening eyes as she took in her surroundings. "Oniichan, this was your room…??" Her face filled with awe as she twirled in place to get the full view.

Yokozawa swallowed whatever retort he'd likely been preparing to deliver as hs expression melted into one of fond appreciation. "Yeah. Until I graduated high school, at least." He nodded to the walls. "My mom did a little redecorating after I left, as I'm sure you can see."

"What, you're saying you _weren't_ so proud of being a first-string wingback for Ichihara Middle School you just had to plaster the very walls surrounding you with your tiny little jersey?" He waved a hand here at the faded shirt tacked to the walls, and Hiyori let out a gasp of surprise.

"Oniichan, you played soccer?"

"Obviously," he grunted, face twisting in what was likely contrition; he rarely snapped at Hiyori and probably would've regaled her with some tale of a close game with his ragtag teammates had Kirishima not been in the room. Really, it was kind of unbearable sometimes how adorable he could be without even _trying_.

He saved Yokozawa the awkward effort of apologizing for his tone and called Hiyori's attention back to the task at hand. "How's dinner coming?"

She brightened, hands clasped before her. "Almost ready! Ah--Yokozawa-san told me to come tell you that 'you better wash up and start setting the table or you can have a bentou from the conbini for dinner since you didn't lift a finger to help prepare the meal'." She flushed with amusement as she finished her recitation, gaze flicking over to Yokozawa to be sure he understood that the chastisement had come not from Hiyori but his own mother.

Yokozawa rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, "She's the one who shooed us out of the kitchen in the first place," but trudged out of the room all the same, headed for the cramped little bathroom at the end of the hall, with Kirishima in tow.

Kirishima watched with a fond smile as Hiyori darted back out of sight, navigating the old house with ease and looking like she'd lived here for years instead of being merely a visitor for the weekend. Yokozawa's long, drawn-out battle against moving in with the people he very obviously wanted to be near had finally come to a head in the past few months, resulting in a solid victory for Team Kirishima and a begrudging offer to _give it some serious thought_ \--which was as good as a yes, Kirishima figured--with the condition laid out that they discuss how to deal with his parents before any boxes were packed, where 'deal with' apparently meant 'break the news that their son wasn't going to be popping out any kids, but they were going to get a grandchild out of the deal regardless'. 

Granted, it wasn't like neither of them had seen this coming--they'd done the, "So I'm sleeping with your father/son/friend/co-worker" dance on several occasions now with minimal blowback, all things considered--but Yokozawa liked to do things on his own terms, and with an upcoming rental agreement renewal staring him down and an offer to take up new lodging on the table, he had a relatively narrow window to get his affairs in order, and despite his looks, apparently the guy still wanted his parents to approve of the choices he made in life.

Kirishima snorted softly to himself, repeating mentally, _adorable_. 

Yokozawa caught his eye in the mirror as he turned on the tap, frowning. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing, _dear_." Yokozawa's frown was unmoved, but he ignored the quip and snatched up a cake of soap, working up a rich lather. Kirishima leaned against the door frame, watching silently, before pressing in a lower register, more serious now. "We're heading back tomorrow, you know."

"I know."

"…Which means the time you have to sit them down and tell them why you dragged us out here with you is rapidly dwindling."

"I _know_ ," he repeated, teeth grit, and he turned the faucet off with a snap of his wrist, stepping back further into the bathroom to give Kirishima room to wash up as well. He mopped at his hands with a face towel and glanced away. "Sorry, just--I'm…working up to it."

It wasn't like the guy to so openly admit his fears, even backhandedly. "They don't seem like the sort who'd react poorly to it."

"People rarely _do_ ," he reasoned soberly, and Kirishima was reminded here that he was very much an outsider, privy only to one side of Yokozawa--the wild bear of Marukawa who was a terror in the office and a teddy at home, who apologized with pastry and confectionery and who made a better wife than most _women_ Kirishima had ever dated--and knew nothing of the home he'd been raised in or the kind of people his parents were beyond the occasional anecdote and the mere hours they'd spent together since arriving the previous evening.

A soft hiss filling the space between them as Kirishima washed up, he reflected that he really did, all too often, ask too much of Yokozawa--and pressuring him into moving in like this was just another in a long line of selfish demands Kirishima couldn't help but heap upon the guy. Sakura had often chided him in that way that took him back to lazy afternoons in unused classrooms trying to dodge the class rep and somehow _always_ being found out, like she'd had radar specially attuned to him.

The faucet squeaked as he turned off the stream, and he felt his chest clench guiltily, taking the proffered towel from Yokozawa without looking him in the eye. When Yokozawa didn't immediately relinquish the towel, he glanced up in confused annoyance. "Gimme the--"

"I'm going to do it, don't worry." He released his hold.

Kirishima mopped at his hands and ducked his head, nodding to shake off any concern. "Yeah, I know. I trust you to show some balls when necessary."

And for once there came no witty retort, just a soft snort and a hand at his shoulder, squeezing slightly as Yokozawa brushed past. It helped, a little.

* * *

"Hiyori-chan tells me you're seeing Kirishima-san."

Yokozawa was exceedingly glad he'd just been drying the top to a tupperware container and not, for example, the large serving dish he'd handled moments before. Perhaps his mother had timed her comment for precisely this reason. His shoulders went immediately stiff and he gripped the flimsy plastic in his hands for dear life, white-knuckled with stress. "I…she what?"

She wouldn't look at him, just kept benignly rubbing a sponge over the already pristine surface of a dinner plate. "Just slipped right out; I don't think the poor dear had any idea you hadn't told us. Casual as anything--going on about how she was so happy her _Oniichan_ was moving in with them--" Yokozawa winced at this; that had been second on the list of things he'd meant to discuss with them this weekend. "--because she knew her father missed you when you left in the evenings. The evenings you didn't spend the night, of course."

If all the blood hadn't drained from his face by this point, he might have flushed at the implication; age did nothing to make it any less awkward discussing personal affairs such as this with one's own mother. 

He wasn't fooled for a second by her casual tone, though--while Yokozawa certainly hadn't gotten his hot temper from her, he was quite sure he'd inherited some of her venom, and there was poison aplenty laced in her words, though he couldn't tell if she was disappointed in him for the relationship…or just for keeping it from her.

"I'd…meant to discuss it with you--everything. It's why we came out here…" He licked his lips and tried to catch a glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye--but she had moved on to sudsing up chopsticks now. "Hiyo…she can't have known, I never thought to mention…"

"What, that she shouldn't discuss what you're doing with her father because you hadn't yet worked up the nerve to tell your own _parents_?" The sponge dropped into the soapy water with a plop, and she wiped shaking hands off on her apron. "I felt…like a _fool_ , standing there peeling potatoes next to her while she prattled on and all I could do was feign understanding. Took me ten minutes to get her to admit you've been seeing him for _over a year_." She fussed with her perm, tucking a stray strand of hair behind an ear and finally turning to face him full on. "…You never _once_ mentioned…"

He thanked any listening higher powers that Kirishima-san was safely tucked away in the bowels of the house making sure Hiyo was settled in for the evening before washing up himself. He hated seeming an incompetent fool before him--it was bad enough when he slipped up at work, but to stand here receiving an upbraiding from his own mother at nearly 30 was humiliating.

He swallowed thickly, looping the dishtowel through a drawer handle. "…Like I said, I was going to discuss it with you--"

"When?"

"This weekend!"

" _This weekend_ is almost over, Takafumi."

"You sound like Kirishima-san," he muttered before he could catch himself, quickly following up with, "Then maybe that should tell you how hard it's been working up the nerve to even come out here with them, let alone…tell you." He rubbed at the back of his neck nervously. "I wasn't trying to _hide_ them from you…"

She huffed a dry laugh. "And all those times I brought up _omiai_ discussions with you, and you told me you weren't interested?"

"I wasn't; obviously."

She narrowed her eyes and seemed to be barely holding herself back from shaking a finger in his face. "Don't argue _semantics_ with me, young man." Satisfied with seeing him quail under her gaze, she relented, expression growing softer, sadder. "I just…I don't know what to make of all this…"

Holding his breath, he allowed. "…It's really not that complicated. I've…found people that I care for. Deeply. And I want to make them happy--and let them make _me_ happy, in turn."

Her lips formed a thin line, and she dropped her voice, as if worried they might be overheard, settling a hand on his arm. "Are you…" She seemed to grasp for delicate phrasing, finding none. "Just, is it really _wise_ to…"

He hardened himself. "It doesn't matter, Mother."

"The hell it doesn't," she spit out, grip tightening on his arm. "They seem like a wonderful family, and I'm sure you _think_ you're doing the right thing--but there are _consequences_ to actions, well-intentioned though those actions may seem, and I'm asking if you've _thought this through_."

Oh, if only she _knew_. "…Why do you think it took me this long to even introduce you to them, let alone to tell you how I feel about them?" He mumbled rhetorically, bringing his fingers to his temples. "My mind is just-- _wracked_ with fucking _consequences_ , a million _what-if_ s and ways things could go wrong." He had to consciously keep his voice in check. "Hiyo--she's…starting middle school next Spring. We have to put in an order for her uniform next month." He locked eyes with his mother. "And I can hear what you're not accusing me of, loud and clear: you think, if nothing else, I'm gonna screw her up. That _this_ is gonna saddle her with a load of baggage kids don't deserve to deal with, that it's selfish, that I should feel ashamed of myself."

She flushed, protesting, "I never--"

"Except you're _right_. She _is_ gonna have to deal with shit other kids won't. And yeah, I think it _is_ selfish in a lot of ways--and I _do_ feel ashamed of myself." He added coolly, "Just not for the reasons you might think I should."

There was silence for a few long beats, and further inside the house, they could hear Hiyori's light chatter filtering muffled through the thin walls. His mother took a breath, drawing herself up. "When you were little--" Something caught in her throat, and she cleared it with a cough. "When you were little, or--well, _younger_ , I suppose…" She shrugged. "You spent a lot of time here on your own, waiting until your father and I got back from work." She brushed her hands over her apron, smoothing out wrinkles that didn't exist. "Half the nights I think _you_ made dinner for _us_..."

Yokozawa allowed himself a small, curled smile of reminiscence. "Didn't stop you from nitpicking."

She waved him off. "You always overseasoned." And maybe that was why she hadn't wanted him in the kitchen tonight, it suddenly dawned. "I suppose…what I'm saying is…that you've always been--an independent sort. You've always--" She groped for words. "--handled yourself well. Made your own decisions, recovered from your own mistakes."

He watched her struggle to find a point. "…Mother, I--"

But she raised a hand to stop him. "I want…to trust that you'll keep doing the same thing. That you're handling this--" She gestured vaguely to the living area--and the bedrooms beyond, "--as well as you've done everything else in life so far."

Yokozawa kept his features schooled, careful not to tip the balance one way or the other at so delicate a juncture. "…I don't need your or Father's approval, Mother." He took a tiny amount of joy in the way her shoulders tensed, lips a white line as she held back in giving him a tongue lashing on the subject of manners and how she was still his parent. "I don't need it--and I didn't come here to get it. Even though I'm quite sure Kirishima-san thinks I have. But--" He paused, taking a breath. "…I won't deny that it'd be nice to have it. To some degree. And if all you can give me is a dressed-up, 'good luck'…I guess I'll take it."

After a few moments' silence, gaze shunted away so she didn't have to look him in the eye, she sighed softly and turned back to the sink to finish the last few dishes that had been soaking in the now-lukewarm water. "Your father _told_ me I should've waited for you to bring it up." She shook her head in seeming self-derision, missing Yokozawa's obvious jolt of realization that he still had another parent to have this discussion with. "Told me I'd stick my foot in my mouth, that it'd come out all wrong and we'd wind up biting each other's heads off."

Tugging the dishtowel free again, Yokozawa allowed, "…We kind of have that in common." And at this, she spared him a glance out of the corner of her eye that showed a hint of sparkling mirth.

"I do _want_ to give you more than a 'dressed-up good luck', Takafumi," she reminded, sounding tired and at the end of her rope, and Yokozawa was suddenly aware of how _old_ she was, and of how much like a child he was acting, arguing with her like this. She reached down and tugged the plug from the drain, rinsing the suds away with the last of the dishwater. "I just…don't know how…"

He carefully turned the last plate in his hands, wiping down the edges. "…You could start by asking me to bring them back again. Maybe have a conversation with Kirishima-san--I'm sure he'd be thrilled to hear stories he can use to blackmail me, so there's always that. Invite Hiyo with you when you go on your fish run in the morning. See for yourself if you think I'm handling things capably or not." He set the plate atop the stack of its mates, returning the towel to where he'd found it. "And…if you're so terribly worried about Hiyo, you're allowed to start doting on her now, you know." He glanced over to see if she was up to cautious teasing just yet. "She's the closest thing to a grandkid you're probably going to get out of me."

She let out a soft, dry huff of laughter and shuffled over to the refrigerator, removing two cans of beer and pressing them into Yokozawa's grasp--a peace offering, perhaps. "So Hiyori-chan's the spoonful of sugar to make the medicine go down more smoothly?"

He fought the urge to roll his eyes, taking the cans from her and responding dryly, "Yes, Mother. I took up with a single parent solely because I knew his daughter would be useful in breaking the news of our relationship to my parents."

Her lips quirked up in a reluctant smile on one side before she turned away to busy herself with returning the dried dishes to the cupboard. "…See? I knew I could trust you to make good decisions."


	43. Harm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone on tumblr requested, "Could you please write about a health scare in Yokozawa's and Kirishima's relationship. I'm curious as to how you see Kirishima reacting to news that Yokozawa might be ill. I really like the second person point of view you use when writing Kirishima's pov," and now I've delivered, I hope!

No one should have to go through this kind of thing twice in his life, you bitterly reflect inside the confines of your mind. There are limits to how much shitty luck can be heaped upon one person--and you're ashamed later on that you thought this kind of thing, because you realize that throughout the whole ordeal, until you have sense quite literally shaken back into you, you've done nothing but think about _yourself_.

But you're only human, and you're scared and worried and _angry_ , so angry--because it's not fair. It's not fair that you didn't sleep at all last night, it's not fair that you feel like you can't catch your breath or that the air's too thin, it's not fair that you're about to vomit the meager breakfast you somehow managed to choke down (for Hiyo's sake, mainly; you didn't want her to get wind anything was wrong) all over the tackily patterned thinning carpet in the lobby of a smaller clinic than the one near your place because that fucking stubborn asshole insisted, "Like hell I'm letting some stranger poke around down there."

Maybe, some day far in the future, when you're both old and gray (because _you're going to get through this_ , you remind yourself firmly), you'll look back on today and laugh--hell, if you'd had the strength and weren't weighed down with worry as you are, you might've been able to laugh about it _now_ : because there's got to be something kind of funny about going down on your lover (you're getting quite good at it now) and giving his balls some due attention (he likes it, even though he'll deny it if you ever mention it), only to find one's a little more bumpy than it probably ought to be.

Your heart's in your throat when you hear the soft click of the door opening, and two polished loafers stride into your view where you're staring holes into the carpet. There's a hand on your shoulder, and you can't look up, because you know you'll see in his eyes one way or the other what the verdict is, and you're not ready for it--you need another 10, 15 minutes of self-loathing.

You don't want to be around him right now. You know you're being an asshole, and you know that he knows as well--he'd have to be thick as anything to miss it, the way you kept to your side of the bed, back to him, the whole night through after you turned in with him explaining, "It can wait 'til morning…", the way you didn't speak a kind word to him beyond the bare minimum, no small talk at all on the way here, the way you silently took your seat in the lobby, knee bouncing nervously up and down while he filled in his information and reminded you it wasn't a good idea to take leave from the office and wasn't it near the end of _Japun_ 's cycle?

You're scared and nervous and a ball of stress, and if you could just lift your damn head, he could maybe make it all go away, or maybe not, maybe he's really--

"It's benign, Kirishima-san."

His voice is low and soft, just by your ear where he's leaned down to give you some semblance of privacy, and your hand scrabbles up frantically to grab at his own where it's settled against your shoulder. You don't care that there's an old man sitting two chairs away thumbing through a copy of today's Yomiuri or a mother and her toddler carrying on a nonsensical conversation across the room--you just need to hold on to some piece of him right now, right this instant, and for once, he allows this small display of affection.

For a moment, at least--he can only indulge you for so long before the gazes of the room's other occupants become too heavy to bear and he urges you to go bring the car around while he finishes his paperwork.

He tries to explain, on the way back to your apartment, what the bump had been (some kind of cyst you're sure you've been coached on in checkups before but never paid much attention to), how it's perfectly common in men approaching middle age, how _you_ ought to start checking yourself too (and were the atmosphere one iota lighter, you might have quipped, "Gonna feel me up daily, then?"), and several times over how it's not serious, not any sort of tumor or cancerous anything, how he's healthy as a horse, and how you definitely shouldn't tell Hiyo about this--whether because he'd be embarrassed to explain to her where the cyst had been and how he'd discovered it or because he just doesn't want to give her cause to worry, you're not sure. Maybe it's both.

He takes the lead after you pull into the garage in the basement of your apartment complex, and you follow him robotically into the elevator, mind blank with buzzing as you work on autopilot. You think you ought to feel relieved, but really all you can think is _just dodged a bullet_ and _sooner or later…_

You reach your floor, and he works the key into the lock--it's the middle of the day; Hiyo won't be home for hours, and you could probably still get some work done if you headed in to the office right now. You don't feel like going, though--whatever you managed to push out would probably be shit, and really you're doing everyone a favor by taking today. 

He lifts out of his loafers, hanging his key up on the little rack on the wall, and you follow suit behind him, monotonously going through the motions--

\--until he grabs your lapels and jerks you forward, only to shove you against the wall and lean in close, his face flushed with anger and frustration and his skin positively _vibrating_ with pent-up emotion. "Don't you _ever_ \--" And he shakes you a little just in case for some reason you weren't focused 110% on him right now, "--do that to me again, you asshole."

Your gaze darts around his face, your mind a mess as you try to compose your thoughts to figure out what the hell has brought this on, but nothing's coming out of your mouth even though your lips are moving on their own.

"You don't get to just _shut down_ on me. You don't get to _run away_ from this kind of shit--you will _stay here_ , stay _with me_ , if we ever have to go through that again, do you understand?" When you don't respond quick enough--or maybe it was a rhetorical question--he continues with a quaver of desperation in his voice you haven't heard in years, not since that first night you drew up a stool next to his own, "You told me, you _promised me_ …you wouldn't throw me away. Fucking _asshole_."

And _oh_. Oh you've been…yes, he put it rather eloquently: a fucking asshole. A monumental prick, thinking of only yourself, wanting to curl in and away from him when he needed you there just to _be with him_ , because he was just as worried and scared as you were, and you _know_ it's just that he never shows it, that he tries to put on a brave front, but that deep down he wants someone to do their damnedest to try and take care of him. And you'd promised him you'd do that--but now, now that he's called your bluff, your promise has been found wanting in the face of reality crashing against your paper-thin words.

You grope for some explanation--an excuse, but all that comes out is a pathetic, "I…I don't think I can…"

And he just shoves you even harder against the wall, ducking his head so you have to look him in the eye when your gaze drops weakly to the ground, and he makes you face him, pay attention to him. "The _fuck_ you can't. You can--and you _will_. Because you're stronger than this, and so am I, but only if we're in it _together_ , got it?"

You don't want to be strong right now, though. "Just…I love you."

"Then don't _leave me_ like that. Don't stay with me unless you're going to _stay with me_." He unclenches his fists and slides his hands, palms burning against the bits of flesh they brush, up your neck to cup either side of your head, and he pulls your face close to his own, but won't kiss you, just holds you there while you both breathe heavily into the narrow space between.

At length, you manage to bring your hands up to cover his own, applying insistent pressure so he knows that, at the very least, you're here right now. "I was scared."

"More than that one time when Ijuuin-sensei sprained his wrist 2 days before his deadline?" You cough around a smile you really don't feel like breaking into but can't help, and the mood is sobered again when he softly admits, "I was too…and I needed you."

You want to protest that you were there for him, but really--you weren't. Not the way he needed you to be. He didn't need a fucking chauffeur; he needed _you_ , and maybe he wouldn't have let you hold his hand while he waited his turn at the clinic and maybe he would've bitten your head off if you'd tried to stroke his back, but you know the fact that you'd even _offered_ those gestures would've made a world of difference. "I'll be there next time," you offer feebly, even though you're not 100% confident you can follow through. You feel like crap right now, though, so you'd probably give him anything he demanded.

"You damn well better," he grunts shortly, finally giving in and letting his jaw drop a hair as he presses his lips to yours--his mouth's dry from nerves, and you just stand there and let him kiss you however he wants, giving and not taking, because it's the only way you can apologize right now that won't lower yourself even more in his eyes. You never want to be less than perfect in front of him--but that doesn't seem to help you not keep screwing up in plain view.

Maybe he senses you're not fully committed to an activity in which you'd normally be a more-than-enthusiastic participant, or maybe he just feels he's made his point, for he pulls away after a moment and asks, voice gruff and gravely, "You hungry?"

"Not really," you lie; you're starving, but you're still a mass of nerves and worry that anything that goes down is only going to come right back up. "Why, are you?"

"Starving," he easily admits, and you follow up with a suggestion that you head back out to the Matsuya near the station; maybe watching him do something normal will spark the appetite in you as well.

He steps back to release you and toes his loafers back on, reaching for the keys he'd hung up not 10 minutes ago. When you just stand there gawking at him for a good 30 seconds, he throws an irritated look your way. "You coming or not?"

"I love you."

You don't know why you feel like you need to say it again; he seems to have accepted your apology, and now you're just prodding at the wound, as if reminding him that you seem to think a confession will excuse anything you've done, but he doesn't bite your head off--he doesn't even grimace or blush or roll his eyes.

He just jerks his head and puts his weight on the door handle to step outside. "The feeling's mutual." And somehow it seems more than just a response to _I love you_.


	44. Naked

His thighs tremble with the effort of supporting his own weight as he lifts up, flushed skin slick with sweat peeling away from the equally flushed skin below before reconnecting with a sickening slap as he settles back down, the burn and stretch somehow dulled when he releases a soft hiss of relief, stilling his efforts and just letting everything boil down to this sharp, dark point where it's just the two of them, in Kirishima's bed, four walls and a door protecting them from all the shit they have to deal with on a daily basis--so that for just a short while, a few minutes or an hour at most, they only have to be the bare minimum of themselves, nothing more or less.

Kirishima settles his hands at his hips, just to hold him in place, not to urge him to pick up the pace again or lift him up so that he can thrust with abandon--just his hands, his fingers burning like brands, reminding Yokozawa where he is and what they're doing and what it _means_.

Kirishima likes to say he loves him for his honesty--even though in the same breath he'll whine about Yokozawa not being _nearly_ open and honest enough with his feelings--and Yokozawa likes to think he means it when he says that kind of thing, that he appreciates the sharp edge to his humor and the not-idly-given compliments because he knows they come from a place of true sincerity and intent, that he wouldn't say these things if he didn't mean them.

Maybe, then, that's why Yokozawa likes to take it upon himself on occasion to remind Kirishima of the depth and breadth of that honesty, that openness, that nakedness where he'll bare himself utterly to this one person who means more to him than the world twice over even though he's scared shitless that it'll come back to bite him in the ass--just because he can't help it. With honesty and sincerity comes a measure of vulnerability, and Yokozawa is demonstrating that very fact just now, with the full measure of his being.

Kirishima's the only person he'd ever do this for--not Masamune ( _never_ Masamune; not the Masamune he remembers)--and not because it's "fair", like they've got some schedule or have to take turns, and not because he likes getting fucked (though he's not nearly as averse to the idea some days as he used to be…) but because he knows, trusts, that Kirishima understands what it means when he straddles Kirishima's hips and slides down his cock, lifting and flexing and straining all with one hand on Kirishima's chest to keep him in place, ordering him to, " _Just lie there and get fucked_." It's for Kirishima but it's not _for_ Kirishima--it's for himself, to remind himself that this person is trustworthy, is worth trusting, is someone he can be not-himself in front of and who'll accept him heart and soul and everything in between. Someone he can call an asshole and who won't take it to heart, because he can hear the honesty beneath the veneer and knows how to read between Yokozawa's lines that are sometimes so muddled even he himself can't manage to do so. 

This guy who can be so dense at the worst times, who has to have the simplest things spelled out for him…is the only one who really understands Yokozawa better than he does himself, the one who speaks the truths that Yokozawa doesn't want to hear but feels like he needs to respond to with honesty and openness of his own. And so here he is, finally getting used to the slick shaft stretching him from the inside out and feeling like maybe he ought to have picked some other position to try and be "naked" before Kirishima in, because he's not as young as he used to be, and riding on top like this forces him to work at his pleasure more than he's used to.

But it's too late to go back now, and he'd rather endure a bit of strain than Kirishima's knowing grin if he were to flop down on his back huffing and puffing and telling Kirishima to finish things up if he feels like getting off. So he flexes and tugs, lifts up onto his knees again and takes some small joy in the way Kirishima winces as he tries to keep from whining, before leaning forward and settling down onto his elbows, bringing their lips together as he swivels his hips in rhythmic time, setting a reasonable pace that'll neither end this too quickly nor drag things on for longer than is decent.

Kirishima's arms reach around to pull him closer, looping under his own to grip him by the shoulder blades as he injects a bit of thrust into his own hips, prompting Yokozawa to release a shuddering grunt when their bodies slam together on the upthrust. Kirishima takes this inch he's given out to the full mile, until eventually Yokozawa gives up all semblance of trying to drive the course of their lovemaking and letting Kirishima take him as he will. Kirishima fills him up in every manner he possibly can--the cock pistoning in and out with heightening fervor as they both barrel toward a climax, the tongue ravaging his mouth now in one of those frustratingly amazing kisses Yokozawa's ashamed to the core to admit he's grown rather addicted to, even the _sounds_ , breathing and grunting and keening whines and the harsh clapping of flesh coming together with growing frequency in time with the desperate note growing more insistent in both their voices.

Yokozawa arches his back, trapping his cock between both their bellies and trying to rub himself off while still rocking back to meet Kirishima's own thrusts, and the warm channel he manages to create is just what he needs to send him peaking, tumbling over the edge in a sticky mess of ecstasy after only a few more passes, and the sensation of Yokozawa's release coating his stomach pushes Kirishima to his own climax after a a few more juddering, sharp thrusts, spilling and filling the condom fit to bursting. He holds on for dear life well beyond the need for purchase, and Yokozawa must delicately disentangle the both of them, grimacing in disgust as Kirishima slips out of him, the condom mottled from the inside with evidence of Kirishima's climax. 

Kirishima lies there, breathing hard and one arm covering his eyes as he waits for his pulse to return to normal, and Yokozawa steals the moment to watch him, raking his gaze over the long, lean body unabashedly displayed without an ounce of shame, as much naked honesty in its inactivity as Yokozawa has just attempted to display with overt proactivity. 

"Like what you see?"

Yokozawa starts at the knowing question, frowning at the grin curling Kirishima's lips. He wonders briefly how Kirishima knew he was watching before chalking it up to the same way that the guy seems to know that Hiyo's not doing her homework despite being in a completely different room.

He opens his mouth to deliver his usual sharp retort along the lines of _don't be so full of yourself_ and _yeah right_ , but they're the both of them still naked in the the flesh, so there's little harm in baring himself just a bit longer, and he offers, "Yeah, I kinda do," before rolling off the mattress and onto unsteady legs that will soon feel the burn of overexertion as he toddles into the bathroom to clean up.


	45. Stop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I call this one 'Trifrotica' 8D

"Fuck--ing hell, you are the most _impatient_ \--" Yokozawa starts, but his protests aren't very convincing when his voice is low and throaty and gruff, not from irritation but _frustration_ , the sexual kind that they're both battling because _fuck_ three weeks is a long time. A _long_ time, and Kirishima had almost popped at his desk when the guy rang his extension earlier that afternoon, babbling on about some delay in back-orders for a re-run of a recent release just so he'd have an excuse to slip in at the last minute, _"And…your mother's got Hiyo tonight…right?"_

Which of course he knew--they _both_ knew, because Kirishima had made _sure_ he'd known, texting him at 3 AM that morning after deplaning from a red-eye back up from Fukuoka. He'd had the day off but had still dragged himself into the office just after lunch, high on adrenaline and less than a few hours of sleep because _deadlines don't take paid vacation_ , as if that were some reason to work himself into a stupor.

But Yokozawa must have known, must have _expected_ this when he'd all but extended Kirishima a written invitation to join him in _Chez Yokozawa_ that evening, so why he's putting up his usual chintzy front is beyond Kirishima just now. He's exhausted and miserable from being so damn _busy_ the past few weeks-- _fuck_ the next mangaka of his whose work lands a movie deal--and just wants to touch Yokozawa, in lots of places--preferably below the belt--until he hits that peak and just keeps on sailing into unconsciousness.

"'Course I'm impatient," Kirishima returns, voice equally strained and rough but still with that playful lilt that even now he can't disguise, half because he knows it pisses Yokozawa off and half because he can't help it; doing stuff like this with Yokozawa always makes him so _happy_. How the hell can he ever be expected to _not_ be over the moon that he's got this amazing, proud, competent, caring person all to himself? He doesn't understand how Yokozawa can _not_ smile about it. "Don't tell me you're not the same."

"You're s'posed to be the mature one here," Yokozawa growls, grip tight around Kirishima's hand where it's trying to unbuckle his belt as he backs them both awkwardly into the living room, beyond which lies a very sparse but very useful bedroom. "You're not a teenager."

"Lucky you," Kirishima returns, lips curling up into a lop-sided grin. "Otherwise we would've broken you of that distaste for hanky-panky at the office." Yokozawa flushes brightly at this, and Kirishima can't help the genuine burst of laughter he releases. "God I missed you," he smiles, looping his free arm around Yokozawa's neck to pull him in for a kiss which he clearly was not expecting, as he doesn't put up a fight, simply groaning into Kirishima's mouth as he takes what he's been craving since they ended negotiations with the agency down south the day before. Bruising, blistering kisses have their place, and neither one of them has ever objected to that place being _present and accounted for in pretty much every sexual encounter they've ever had_ , but these kinds of kisses, the deep, driven, devoted kind that say more than Kirishima can put into words himself or that Yokozawa could ever bring himself to stand to hear? Those are few and far between and all the more precious when they do show up.

Kirishima snakes a leg around Yokozawa's shin, knocking him off balance and sending him flopping down onto his back on the couch they've been working to move past for a good three minutes now, progress toward the bedroom hampered by preoccupation. "The hell--" Yokozawa begins, breaking the kiss as he jerks his head to the side to complain. "We're like five paces from my bedroo--"

"Fuck it," Kirishima breathes, desperation tangible in his tone, and Yokozawa freezes beneath him, going silent and obedient at the look Kirishima fixes him with before leaning in again for another kiss, this one hotter and headier, like everything in his voice and his eyes has just been funneled into his lips now. Yokozawa regains his senses and tries to angle himself to push Kirishima away, but he can't find purchase, or maybe he just isn't trying hard enough, because he quickly gives up the struggle and brings his hands up to clench the fabric of Kirishima's work shirt tight in his fists and winds up tugging him closer rather than shoving him away.

Kirishima slides a knee between Yokozawa's, awkwardly situated with one leg on the couch, one on the floor, but he just needs this angle, just for a few moments, because the couch is narrow ( _"Then why aren't we doing this in a proper bed, horny idiot?"_ he can practically hear Yokozawa griping), never meant to support two grown men making out like teenagers, but it'll do for now, and he slides down, ass brushing over Yokozawa's thigh and sending tiny shudders of pleasure up Kirishima's spine that are blasted from his mind with the wave of sensation that follows when he reaches Yokozawa's crotch, rubbing his zip over Yokozawa's still-half-buckled belt and gasping into Yokozawa's mouth. 

Whether in effort to tease or just unconscious, primal reaction, Yokozawa's hips jerk upward, bumping against Kirishima again and drawing vocal response this time, and Yokozawa shifts his grip and splays his fingers over Kirishima's back, pulling him down and close as if to say _You made your bed, now sleep in it_. If Kirishima wants him on the couch so badly, he'd better be prepared to take responsibility, apparently.

Slowly, carefully, Kirishima lets his hips drop again, deepening his kiss along with a practiced roll of his hips that sends them both gasping into one another's mouths--and that's all the foreplay Kirishima can take right now, at the limits of his stamina and desperate for more reasons than one to just _feel_ Yokozawa right now, but he can't even spare a thought to tug his pants down or navigate the mess that is Yokozawa's belt, so he just rolls his hips again, drawing long and lean over Yokozawa's own burgeoning erection, up just until he can feel that tip nosing the base of his balls before dragging down again and repeating the action with a bit more pressure and a greater tempo, then again, and again until Yokozawa seems to realize they're getting ahead of themselves and twists his head to the side, voice broken and thick as he pants, "Get--my fucking pants off…or I'm gonna…"

When he trails off, Kirishima wonders in the back of his mind if Yokozawa was going to threaten him or just warn him, but it doesn't matter, because he can't stop now, doesn't want to stop, not when he's found a nice little groove formed between Yokozawa's cock straining against his work slacks and the dip of his groin, their shafts hard and leaking, staining the front of their pants with evidence that this has been a long time, too long, coming. 

Maybe if Yokozawa shoved him away, told him in no uncertain terms he wanted to feel Kirishima, flesh to flesh--maybe then Kirishima would've been able to rein himself in, bank that last burst of energy that's all he's got left and fumble out of their pants. But Yokozawa does neither of these things, makes no further demands when Kirishima just buries his face in the crook of Yokozawa's neck and suckles low enough on his shoulder that he won't bitch about anyone possibly seeing it at the office before cocking his hips just a bit more to the right so that their shafts brush through layers of fabric on every pass, intensity ratcheting up and up and up--until he presses down, hard, as wetness pools in his underwear with Yokozawa not far behind, his cry of release muffled against Yokozawa's skin.

It's warm, but not that sticky, choking humidity that comes with late summer--just comforting warmth, and Yokozawa's arms are still around him, stroking up his back to his shoulder blade before trailing back down the length of his spine in lazy motions. If he's pissed that Kirishima couldn't hold it as far as the bedroom, he's being a Nice Guy and not unloading on him just yet. Which is a good thing, because Kirishima would not be good sport right now, endorphins flooding his body and leaving him loopy and relaxed, and Yokozawa doesn't seem the type to kick a guy when he's down.

He lazily licks at the spot he'd nipped in the throes of climax, apologizing silently; he tried apologizing vocally once, even offering to let Yokozawa do it back to him, but that had definitely turned out to be a bad idea, and not well-received either, so this will have to do. He can hear Yokozawa saying something from far away, but his voice is raw and rough and Kirishima's steadily losing touch with reality because _damn_ it's really comfortable here--and the last thing he registers before he slips off completely is--

_"Fucking he--are you falling asleep on top of me, you asshole?!"_

It's good to be back home.


	46. God

You're not a religious sort, really. You've got Sakura's shrine prominently displayed in your home, sure, and you make sure to attend _hatsumoude_ every new year's, and not an _obon_ has passed when you haven't done a grave visit--but these are more about tradition, about having something familiar to cling to, some little bit of mundane, immutable _something_ in an otherwise changing world that helps you not realize just how different everything is now, for better or worse.

But you remember praying. You remember praying a _lot_ , and you don't really recall to whom you directed these prayers, but you remember pouring every fiber in your being into them when you made them.

You remember praying for courage--the courage to man up and accept her proposal, to make her _happy_ , to marry someone you knew wasn't long for this world, because you fucking _loved her_ and weren't a few of the best damn years of your life worth the empty ones you knew would follow? You could've run away, could've acted the jerk, the flirt, driven her away and maybe even into the arms of someone who could've done right by her, who would've lived for _her_ instead of begging her to live for _you_ \--but in the end, you'd always been weak to her, so you nod, wincing as she shoves a tarnished cheap little thing she bought from a stall in Shibuya onto your finger because _"I saw it in a movie once and always wanted to try it."_ You don't take it off, not even to shower, until you replace it with the real thing.

You remember praying for the healthy birth of your child--your _daughter_. You'd never really wanted a kid, honestly--not like _this_ at least, not when it sounded like she was suggesting you have a baby less because she wanted to raise a family and more because she wanted one to _leave behind_. You didn't want a baby--you just wanted _her_ , but you weren't going to have her, you would remind yourself in the dark, quiet moments at night when she was sound asleep next to you, fragile but still _there_ for now--you weren't going to have her for long, but this kid? This kid would be yours _forever_. You were gonna make damn sure of that.

You remember praying, harder than you'd ever prayed before, for her not to die, your pleas and entreaties getting more desperate toward the end. You'd gone through all five stages of grief in some ever-looping cycle, never managing to get off at _acceptance_ and just whipping back around again to _denial_ , and it _fucking hurt_ each time. 

"You'll find someone else, after, right?" she'd asked you, laid up in the hospital bed, choked in tubing and drowning in the ever-present beeping of monitors and machines, and it wasn't accusing in the least--though you'd wished it were. You'd wanted her to take your hand and rub her finger over your ring, wanted her to look you in the eye, love in her heart, and beg you never to replace her, all so that you would have had an excuse to break down and reassure her that you could never do that, _would_ never do that, that she was all you ever wanted and fuck 'til death do us part'. 

Instead you'd just nodded, small and barely perceptibly with a torn smile, because if you'd opened your mouth to say anything, you're pretty sure you would've started crying and never stopped.

After that, you stopped praying for a long time. It never seemed to work when you needed it most, after all, and when you finally managed to pull yourself out of the loop and toddle, dizzy, through _acceptance_ , you were too focused on trying to put your life back in order to think about asking higher powers for help in the process.

You pray again now, though--just for more benign things, because those come more easily. You remember praying just last week for the willpower not to throw a chair at Yokozawa's head in a print-run decision meeting. He's amazing, in so many ways, but god he can be a fucking annoying prick sometimes. You'd think after all this time, he'd have some faith in you and your department's ability to generate content that supports the print numbers you want, but he keeps low-balling you, and you'd try to get some revenge by making him sleep on the couch or something, except it'd just wind up pissing _you_ off more than him in the end, so you'd swallowed the figures he beat you down to and used up all the hot water the next morning instead. 

And then there's the prayer you repeat every year, even though you already know the answer: _Is it okay? Can I love him?_

You know they're only words meant to shackle you, hold you back from committing 110%--she's given you her response, gave it years ago, and sometimes you swear you can feel the wind whipping up strong at your back, pushing you forward like she's grousing at you to _get out of here, you big dope--Yokozawa-san's waiting for you_. If Hiyo ever wonders why you leave the marker some visits grinning like a loon, she never asks.

Today, though, you've finished your prayers and stand silent and polite, off to the side, hands clasped before you as you wait for Yokozawa to finish his business. He's just standing there, staring at the marker, not saying or doing anything, but you recognize the expression on his face and you know the prayer he's delivering, because _takes one to know one_. You'd been overcome with emotion when he'd asked to come with you, some mixture of joy and despair and everything in between but mostly _love_ , and while it kind of made you feel a bit sick to your stomach, the drive over awkward as anything, even with Hiyo in her usual high spirits, you're thrilled he came. You know it must be at least a _little_ difficult for him, having to see her shrine in that corner of the apartment every day (hey, at least you don't have to see Takano's mug outside of the office), but you kind of always wanted him to meet her, properly, so you're glad he's here now.

You start at a hand on your shoulder, snapped from your reverie as one of his brows lifts in concern, but you just shrug and jerk your head in the direction of the steps back down to the entryway; Hiyo's already jogging ahead, letting you know she's going to purchase a charm for students, _"Because Iokawa-kun really sounds like he needs the help…"_

Once she's started down the steps, head bobbing out of sight, you link your fingers in Yokozawa's own, and for once he doesn't say anything, doesn't pull away, just curls them slightly to pull your palm flush against his, your shoulders brushing on every other step. 

There's a breeze at your back, and you smile.


	47. Gentle

_WHUMP_

Kirishima winced, hissing a soft curse and shrugging his shoulders, arms at the ready to fend off another attack as he twisted in place to figure out what he'd done to deserve the rap to his head he'd just received, finding Yokozawa standing, hands on his hips and a rolled up issue of some rag he'd picked up from the convenience store clenched in his fingers. "The fuck was that for?"

Yokozawa's expression didn't change, still sour, like he'd been sucking on a lemon, but his gaze flicked to the laptop in Kirishima's lap accusingly. "Is that the check you were working on before dinner?"

Kirishima sat up a bit straighter, glancing back and forth between the man at his bedside and the screen before him, a half-finished e-mail open, waiting for files to be attached before being whisked off into cyberspace. Scratching the back of his head to rearrange the hair where Yokozawa had rapped him on the head, he frowned. "Yeah…the last few pages were a bitch, but I think I got it sorted out. I was about to let Kyou-san know where to…" Yokozawa's arms were crossed over his chest, lips pinched into a tight line. "…What?"

This only made the lips pinch tighter, and after a moment of mutual staring, Yokozawa rolled his eyes with a huff and raised his arms in irritation. "You promised, you idiot."

Kirishima stiffened--oh fuck, it was never a good idea when you had to be reminded of something you'd _promised_ and couldn't recall what the hell that was for the life of you. Birthday? No, that was months away. Anniversary? Celebrating the day you met would be gauche on so many levels--"Here's to the day you got your heart broken, Darling"--and there wasn't much else to commemorate beyond that. Yokozawa must have seen the flash of panic that skittered across his face, though, and divined its source pretty quickly; the guy could be irritatingly sharp at times. 

He waved a hand at the laptop. "You won't let me draft sales reports in bed, so like hell I'm going to sit here and let you file off e-loveletters to your damn mangaka." He strode forward, free hand out expectantly. "Give it."

Kirishima blinked silently before breaking into a soft snort. "…You have to be joking. I'm like thirty seconds away from being finished."

"It's for your own good--can't have Hiyo an orphan at fifteen."

"I'm not going to _work myself into an early grave_ ," he drawled, adding with a lifted brow, "But I'm touched you care."

"If you're so intent on doing this tonight, then the dining room table's been cleared down."

"Hell no--I'm just going to--" But Yokozawa went for the contraption regardless, and Kirishima had to scramble to move it out of his reach, irritation peaking, "Fucking--what the hell is your prob--"

"Because--" Yokozawa dropped his voice, hissing sharply, free hand braced on the headboard. "We agreed not to do work in here. _Period_." Kirishima froze, gaze darting to the size--because of course, he was right, they _had_ agreed, around about when he'd finally gotten fed up with Yokozawa scooting over to the far edge of the bed and cocooning himself in paperwork until it was time to douse the lights. It was damn difficult to get him in the mood when the guy's head was filled with distribution sheets and order numbers, and they'd come to a tentative compromise.

Yokozawa wouldn't tolerate any "funny business" as he liked to call it in the family room, as that was for spending time with Hiyo; he didn't want to flash back to any untoward encounters just by settling in for an evening drama series, after all. But the same could be said of the bedroom--which was to be kept for play, and not work. Kirishima had been completely on-board with the notion initially, himself rather loath to bring work into his private life, but there was a deadline that had kind of snuck up on him and Kyou-san was being his usual charmingly frustrating self (Kirishima seemed to have a knack for attracting these sorts…), and well…surely Mr. Workaholic himself wouldn't mind.

Or so he'd thought.

Yokozawa stood, imposing and intimidating, magazine still clenched in one fist and looking rather intent on putting it to use again if Kirishima balked further on the issue, and with a beleaguered sigh, Kirishima shuffled upright, sliding the lid shut and waving Yokozawa out of his way. They'd made an agreement, and he probably would've been just as irritated if he'd caught Yokozawa pecking away on his own laptop as he pored away over a late-night e-mail to one of his cronies.

The lights in the living room had already been doused, Hiyo gone to bed an hour before ("End-of-semester tests in the morning, Dad--I told you _ages_ ago," she'd huffed, her tone pure teenager but the roll of her eyes and quirk to her lips classic Kirishima, underscored with a touch of 'Yokozawa' when she'd added, "Don't tell me my dear old father's going senile already?"). The soft hum of the refrigerator echoed from the kitchen, and in the dimness he could make out the dark shape of the little shrine in the corner. 

He paused, ignoring the light brush of guilt that even now, after years together, he still couldn't entirely shake--likely would never be able to shake--and settled the laptop on the coffee table before the couch, making a mental note to press that 'send' button in the morning. Yokozawa had a point: it could wait, and associating their bedroom with anything other than the things it _ought_ to be associated with was just not done. 

With a satisfied huff, he swept his gaze around the room once more before turning on his heel and heading back for their bedroom, pausing before stepping over the threshold for any signs of life from Hiyo--nothing, all quiet. The kid could sleep like the dead.

Easing the door open to their bedroom, though, he drew to an abrupt stop, jerking back and a soft _oh_ of surprise falling from his lips--as he found Yokozawa settled back in the very spot Kirishima had just vacated, back propped up by pillows and head resting against the headboard, eyes shut and brows furrowed as he held the hem of his pajama pants down with one hand and tugged a long stroke up his shaft with the other. His fingers slipped over the slick, velvety skin, thumb swiping over the exposed head that drew a grunting hiss and jerk of his hips that Kirishima responded to in pity with a tongue flicking out over his dried lips.

He froze in place, barely breathing and heart thudding loudly in his chest as he watched Yokozawa prop his legs open a bit wider, settling down to force his erection up, jutting proud and stiff while he rolled a thumb and forefinger down the shaft and up again, mouth hanging open and breathing audibly labored.

Kirishima swallowed thickly, fingers twitching at his sides, and Yokozawa cocked his head just to the side, eyes mere slits and tears forming at the edges with the effort of working himself up from a cold start into the rather impressive state he found himself in now. His movements were slow, languid, and practiced--he wasn't just horny, trying to get off to help himself fall asleep faster; he was obviously following some agenda, had _plans_ , and given that Yokozawa tended to be more of the _get in, get out, get to bed_ type when it came to sex on weeknights, this was a welcome surprise, and one Kirishima very much hoped to be a part of.

He opened and closed his mouth a few times, conscious of the flush lighting up his face as he looked on guiltily--was he not supposed to be here right now? Was he intruding on something? Not that he didn't intend to tease the _shit_ out of Yokozawa--catching him with his pants down, literally, was too rare a treat to pass up--but he did feel a bit bad about it, as surely now he'd just hastily tug his bottoms back up and retreat into the bathroom, keeping his back to Kirishima for the duration of the evening and refusing to engage in conversation the entirety of the following day. Dating a _tsundere_ was tough, even if you managed to work down the ratio of _tsun_ to _dere_ to something a bit more manageable, and five years together hadn't seemed to temper the guy's adorable tendency to get embarrassed over the simplest displays of affection.

Then came the subtle jerk of his head, an invitation, and Kirishima's legs were moving again, slow and stilted like slogging through quicksand, but still bringing him closer, already shifting uncomfortably and pressing down on his crotch with the heel of his hand to keep from springing to life sooner than would be appropriate. He didn't relish the thought of having to finish himself off in the bathroom if things turned sour, and Yokozawa's moods were always a minefield to navigate.

When he'd drawn near enough, though, Yokozawa snapped his free hand out, curling fingers in the loose fabric of his pajama bottoms and tugging him closer until he could reach up and pull the elastic at the hem down, exposing Kirishima fully as he wriggled free, shirt pulled up and staring down in mute shock.

He could almost hear himself blinking, so silent had he fallen, but when Yokozawa shifted in place, one knee coming up while the other flopped down so he could twist around, and slipped long fingers around the half-hard cock at face-level now, guiding Kirishima forward the final length, he couldn't help the gasped protest of, "Oh--fuck, shit, Yokoza- _Takafumi_ , you really don't have t-- _ngh_."

The sharp upward glance as Yokozawa's jaw dropped open, tongue darting out to sweep over the head and gently ease back the hood, was enough to stifle further protest--dead sleeper Hiyo might have been, they still had neighbors to concern themselves with. Kirishima grit his teeth, firming up his place standing at the bedside and letting one hand drift around to the back of Yokozawa's head, closing his eyes and releasing a long, ragged breath.

_Fuck_ the guy could give spectacular head. He'd confessed initially to never having done it before--and Kirishima could believe it. The spirit, grudgingly willing though it had been those first few times, lost out to the weak flesh that just didn't know what to do with his teeth or how to keep his lips from getting chapped. Now, though, after _ample_ practice, the gesture came much more easily--as did Kirishima in the wake of his attentions, embarrassingly enough, and it was on realizing this that Yokozawa became more eager to bestow them. The asshole.

But tonight--tonight he was taking it easy, slow and gentle, perhaps distracted with having to split his concentration between one hand on his own cock and the other guiding Kirishima's shaft through his lips. Had the position allowed it, Kirishima might have been doing his part to help Yokozawa in getting off--a helping hand, as it were--but he hesitated to move or voice his intent, especially when Yokozawa seemed almost _content_ to bob away, looking sexier than he had any right being with flushed cheeks and neck nearly as bright red as the shaft he was going down on.

His attentions to his own cock slowed, free fingers massaging the root of Kirishima's as he gave a few practiced sucks on the tip before pulling free and easing it up at an angle to lave a line from base to tip, slanting his hooded gaze upward where Kirishima looked down, mouth hanging open slightly and breathing soft and ragged. The corner of his lips quirked up, a lopsided smile of pride in his handiwork, and Kirishima tightened his own grip at the back of Yokozawa's head, attempting to ease him back down, aching for the warm confines of his mouth hot and tight around his cock again.

"Easy there," Yokozawa warned roughly, tone gravelly and raspy from his efforts, and he nuzzled the tip just to prove he was in control, giving a light squeeze for show before sliding his grip down and back up again. "Or I might become suddenly disinclined to finish what I've started."

A flicker of worry danced across the back of Kirishima's mind, but he kept his voice even, a roll of his hips sending the tip brushing a line of leaking precum across Yokozawa's cheek. "I've got two working hands," he reasoned, crowing inside at the challenge that flashed in Yokozawa's gaze at this.

"Sure…" he offered, tugging just enough to guide Kirishima another good step forward as he leaned down and nuzzled at the base, inhaling sharply and releasing his breath in a staccato stream across the sensitive flesh. "…but you'd miss this, wouldn't you?"

Kirishima bit his lip, stifling a grunt and leaning his head back to try and retain a hold on his faculties--fuck it was a good thing Yokozawa rarely treated him like this. They'd never make it out of bed otherwise--or else, Kirishima would've kicked the bucket a _long_ time ago.

Yokozawa wasn't satisfied with just putting the kibosh on any further idle chatter, though, and licked a stripe from stem to stern to pull him back down. "Wouldn't you, _Zen_?"

"Oh-- _shit_ , fuck, yes of course, of course, now--" He swallowed thickly, blinking away the stars from his eyes, and tried to bring Yokozawa back into focus, inhaling sharply as his cock disappeared back between his lips, glorious pressure and warmth and wetness, and it would've been even _more_ fantastic if he'd had Yokozawa pinned beneath him, fingernails scraping at his back and tongues twisting together and hips pistoning in and out and in again--but then he would miss this, miss Yokozawa frantically working himself, hips giving little jerky thrusts, while his free hand clenched tight about the muscle of Kirishima's ass.

He could feel glorious pressure building up in his core, orgasm bearing down upon him with each twist and swipe, and Yokozawa quickly renewed his efforts with his own cock, fisting his shaft with abandon as the room subsided into keening whines and a wet _schlick schlick schlick_ increasing in tempo.

Kirishima winced, breath catching in his throat and body going rigid--before spasming to life again as his climax erupted, cock twitching between Yokozawa's lips. He stared down, fascinated by the site, registering Yokozawa's own much less aggressive climax following shortly as he dribbled over his hand in small white rivulets, breath hot and ragged over Kirishima's spent cock as he groaned his release. He continued to stroke himself to coax the last bits free, rubbing himself down, and suckled lightly on the cock still in his mouth--which if he didn't stop soon was going to have Kirishima on his way to another round given that he knew how much Yokozawa hated swallowing.

He shifted in place with a frown, trying to pull away and let the guy breathe, but Yokozawa kept his fingers clenched firm in the meat of his ass, pausing just at the tip and letting the shaft rest limp against his cheek as he struggled to catch his breath. He flicked his gaze upward, lids hooded and pupils wide in the low light of their bedroom--and then he swallowed thickly, licked his lips with a flash of pink tongue, and warned silkily, "No fucking _work_ in the bedroom, got it?"

Kirishima was not ashamed to admit that he expected he would have to be reminded again at some point in the future, but nodded nonetheless.


	48. Ghost

There are fingers at his throat, and he seizes up for a moment in panic, hands flying up to stop them before pausing, hanging helpless in the air, clenching and unclenching in sequence as a throaty voice chuckles, "Ah ah ah--you promised," and with grit teeth, he nods shortly, flushing with shame, and lets his head flop back to the pillow.

The fingers brush over his pulse, following the long smooth line of muscle down his neck and tugging at the knot in his tie, gently first for show before more insistently. He frowns, brows cinching together in the darkness he's been consigned to--voluntarily, he reminds himself firmly--and his fingers twitch at his sides, aching to bat away the hands pawing at him and just tug the damn tie off properly.

He should have stripped before agreeing to this whole fiasco, he's now realizing; sure, it would've been embarrassing, standing there naked as the day he was born in Kirishima's bedroom, and he can already see himself awkwardly trying to avoid eye contact and covering his sensitive bits as much as possible (which isn't much at all), but at least he would've felt more in control, more _in charge_. You might think that after a good year or so together, he'd be used to giving up control to the likes of Kirishima--and would understand that any such accessions would be taken with care, not taken advantage of; Kirishima was a jerk, but not an asshole--yet nature cannot be so easily conquered, instincts more finicky and difficult to navigate than all that, and despite knowing that Kirishima would not do anything he wasn't comfortable with, that he could remove this damn tie wrapped snugly over his eyes whenever he liked…it's still _strange_ , and he does not deal well with "strange".

He tries to breathe deeply, but it comes out more as an irritated sigh, and Kirishima chuckles again somewhere beyond the darkness, splaying his palm flat over the newly exposed skin of his upper chest, broad and warm and calming as a thumb rubs over his collarbone. "Relax… You'll like this," a disembodied voice reassures, and while he is sure that yes, he probably will, has liked what's happened thus far, it doesn't shake the trepidation.

He hisses sharply when the palm is replaced with lips, tongue darting out to swirl over his nipple through his undershirt, the work shirt falling by the wayside as Kirishima smartly finishes unsnapping the buttons and easing it open. The undershirt is hiked up to his armpits, shoved out of the way, and Kirishima applies his lips to the skin directly, suckling teasingly while tweaking the other with calloused fingers.

He jerks upward, thrusting his chest up and away from the bed to seek more of that glorious wet heat, but Kirishima just gentles him, one hand easing his hips back down and patting his stomach lightly. "You _promised_ , Takafumi," and he's not sure what's more humiliating--the way Kirishima has to chide him like a child, reminding of what he'd agreed to, or the way his stomach fills with butterflies that clamor for release the way Kirishima sing-songs his name.

He grunts his compliance, releasing a shuddering breath and striving for some measure of composure, flinching when a hand reaches up to trail a finger along his jawline, pausing at his chin to tug it down as his lips are gently covered with Kirishima's own. He can feel the hard outline of Kirishima's erection brushing against his thigh, equal measures arousing and intimidating, because he's not entirely sure what the guy intends to do with it, but he pushes the thought away and relaxes his lips, giving in to the kiss and granting Kirishima the trust he'd asked for at the start of this charade.

There's rustling and clinking now, and he can feel his belt being slid off, his zip tugged down, and the flaps to his fly eased open as Kirishima continues to kiss him, deep and gentle and dark while palming his erection, their chests brushing together with each inhalation. He struggles not to struggle--clamping down with all his might on the urge to twist and jerk and fight for more control, even to touch Kirishima himself, run his fingers down his sides and up again and grip him tight around the back, fingernails leaving impressionable imprints along shoulder blades that Kirishima will tease him about in the morning. But he can't, promised he wouldn't, and so he just whines his frustration into Kirishima's mouth, sucking on whatever he can reach--teeth, tongue, lips--and counting that as definitely not cheating or flirting the boundaries of their agreement. If Kirishima disagrees, he doesn't say as such, smiling into the kiss and trying to return the nips and licks in force.

Kirishima pulls back at length, sliding around to the side to whisper hotly, "Tell me what you want, Takafumi," and there's a note of begging in his voice, none of the cocky confidence that he usually flaunts, and somehow this makes all the difference--because _that_ is exactly what he wants. Wants Kirishima hot and panting for him, waiting to be given and too hard, too far gone to take anything. He loves being desired, deep down craves the way that Kirishima badgers and teases and reaps the pleasures he's so carefully sown, but as a man, there's no greater pleasure--in his eyes at least--than having a lover pleading because it's just _too much_ and they need you to give it, to offer it, because that'll push them over the edge more keenly than grabbing it for themselves.

" _Takafumi,_ " Kirishima tries again, kissing under his ear, though it's more just a hot press of lips, insistent for attention, and he rolls his hips down in one solid, traveling motion, drawing their cocks over one another and wrenching another series of voiceless gasps from both parties.

He tilts his head forward, pressing his forehead into the crook of Kirishima's neck, because even blindfolded, there are still some things he doesn't want showing in his eyes, his features. "Ride me…" he whispers, barely audible, and winces at how pathetic he must sound--and it's the first thing he's said all night, so his voice is raspy and rough with desire. He darts a tongue out to lick his lips, and if it brushes against Kirishima's collarbone in the process, the salty sheen of sweat a welcome taste, he maintains it's an accident. 

"Gladly," Kirishima returns, voice just as gravelly and thick with promise, and he leaves a line of fire-brand kisses marking a trail down the neck, chest, abdomen, pausing just at the hem of his underwear where he's no doubt straining at the fabric, a dark spot staining his briefs and twitching with every stray thought kindling his excitement.

He wishes he weren't blindfolded right now--not because he feels vulnerable, not because he's regretting agreeing to this, not because the sensation of fingers ghosting over his flesh, breath flushing over him where he knows Kirishima's mouth is _just right there_ is approaching unbearable--but because he wants to see, _needs_ to know what Kirishima looks like right now, the challenging glint in his eye reminding that _he_ doesn't have a problem with a cock up his ass, enjoys it on occasion even, and that certain other members of this relationship could stand to be a bit more honest about the extent to which they like getting fucked instead of bitching about it before any buttons have even been unsnapped.

He grimaces; on second thought, the blindfold can stay. He lets his head flop back, evening his breathing to sync in time with Kirishima massaging his balls gently, thumb and forefingers tracing the shape through his briefs in an easy rhythm. The pace is slow tonight, lazy even, but he doesn't so much mind, even if he's still having to clamp down on the part of himself that feels the tiniest bit claustrophobic, forcing himself to concentrate on Kirishima, on his scent, on the heat of his touch and the thrill he manages to elicit with the intensity of the attentions he bestows. He whimpers unconsciously in anticipation, and Kirishima shushes him softly, like a parent to a child, and takes pity, tugging his cock out through the window in his briefs and giving it a light squeeze to remind what's coming. He swallows with some effort, and the grip tightens--or maybe he's just gotten harder.

He can hear, somewhere in the room--disorientation is not a welcome side effect of this blindness--the clicking of a cap popping open and soft squelching as Kirishima squeezes lubricant from the tube, and tenses for a breath until he feels a light touch on the head of his cock, fingers forming a tight ring that expands to slide down his shaft, laving slick lubricant in its wake. He releases a long, shuddering breath, unable to contain himself, and Kirishima laughs, "C'mon, I know I'm good, but I'm not _that_ good…" Were it not for the agreement, he would snap out a retort, but he restrains himself and instead executes a short little thrust into Kirishima's warm, tight grip, eager to move on. Kirishima tuts softly, "Easy…" and a wave of contrition washed over him; the guy was going out of his way to do this, to do this to _him_ , the least he could do was play along as requested.

He doesn't move again--to the extent he can help it, at least--and the sickening _schlick schlick_ of his cock being lubed up is soon accompanied by faint grunting as Kirishima prepares himself, breathing growing heavy and labored. It's difficult doing it to yourself, he knows, and wishes he could help but just settles for a gentle touch at the hand Kirishima has braced against the mattress to support himself. It's against the rules, but Kirishima still leans into the touch a bit, and his breathing evens out. 

He feels the mattress dip and creak as Kirishima swings a leg over to mount him and thinks about raising his voice--complaining to at least take his pants off--but bites his tongue because, somewhere, somehow, it feels _kind of good_ , and this is probably the closest Kirishima is ever going to get to _office sex_ , so he'll allow it this once. Maybe work clothes are a kink of Kirishima's, he reasons--it'd certainly explain why he's all the time trying to get handsy in empty meeting rooms and the third- and fifth-floor bathrooms. Kirishima takes his cock in hand and lines it up perpendicular--and then he can feel something pressing at his tip, firm and impossibly tight, and he braces himself for the sensation--

\--but nothing follows, and Kirishima just sits there, straddling him on his knees, frozen in place with a cock nosing him in the ass. Perhaps it's a test--or perhaps it's an invitation, he doesn't know, and sits there struggling internally to retain some hold on his reason, fighting against digging his fingers into Kirishima's hips and tugging him down with a punishing thrust of his own in return. He hates teasing--in bed and out of it--and he _told_ him what he wanted, dammit, so why is he taking so damn long to give it?

Kirishima snorts softly in the darkness, amusement evident, before the bed creaks again as he leans forward, crawling up, over the chest and collarbone and neck to reach the jaw where he places another languid kiss upon the swollen lips he finds there, grinding slowly and methodically over the shaft beneath him. Kirishima dips his tongue between the lips, making a sweep before massaging gently to elicit a response, and in short order he receives it.

He's so hard, leaking now, desperate for release from so much exquisite buildup, but Kirishima continues to kiss and kiss and _kiss_ , and it's a crime that someone whose kisses can feel so amazing tempts and teases with them in situations like this. How can one be expected to choose between what _might_ be a first-rate fuck and what assuredly _is_ a first-rate kiss?

But he's voiced his desires already, and Kirishima is only delaying the inevitable, and when he pulls away at length, it's only to whisper, lips plump and wet against his own and an expectant smile laced in his words, " _Happy belated birthday_."


	49. Picture

He honestly didn't have the first clue what he was fucking doing. He'd bought the damn thing on a whim--seeing it at the convenience store right there snuggled up all comfy next to a recent issue of Earth that Yokozawa had been contemplating picking up, and its very presence had seemed threatening, teasing--kind of like Kirishima himself. Sitting there seemingly innocent, just another women's rag next to the home-and-garden and fashion pieces, but Yokozawa knew the face it wore that others didn't see: the face of _temptation_. 

He'd snatched it up and passed it front-cover-down to the attendant at the register along with an assortment of what he hoped were sufficiently masculine alcoholic beverages and snack items to keep the clerk from assuming he intended the purchase to be for himself. 

So here he was now, sitting in seiza on his own creaky mattress that was bowing in the middle and probably needed replacing since he hadn't touched it since moving to Tokyo, staring down with mixed trepidation and yes, fine, admittedly some excitement--at a copy of that damned magazine.

He'd flipped through it for show back in the convenience store, which he didn't really know why he'd done, looking back; he supposed he'd wanted people to think he was a 'discerning reader', but it probably came off as he'd liked what he'd seen and made his purchase based on the titillating content. Perhaps, he reasoned, that was better than the alternative: going straight for the magazine, no questions asked, and being thought some pervert who actually read shit like this on a regular basis.

He sighed to himself and grimaced, massaging the back of his neck and muttering curses under his breath as he reached forward and flipped open the front cover. Advertisements, perfume samples lining some of the pages, a table of contents--names he'd never heard of in big, bold headlines--until his eyes fell across a piece two thirds of the way down, an editorial on "Hottie Head Honchos". Yokozawa made another face and chalked his distaste with the title up to the sheer gaucheness rather than anything to do with the sharp twinge of jealousy that had lanced through his chest. Kirishima was attractive; that much was a fact. Getting worked up over others recognizing something which was pretty damn obvious was just an exercise in futility.

He swallowed, paging through the magazine with trembling fingers until he brushed past a full-page shot of Kirishima with a cigarette in one hand, balanced between two long, slender fingers and the butt resting just at his lips, which were parted in a soft smile as he glanced off to the side, at once seductive, alluring, and playful. Yokozawa scowled at the pose--and the expression on the guy's face--before recalling that this was a women's magazine, and its readers probably wanted someone exuding confidence and charisma and power, which admittedly this shot did.

He raked his eyes over the interview, catching a few lines here and there in his cursory glance, but quickly averted his gaze back to the images; it would hold nothing he didn't already know, and certainly nothing he would've cared to be reminded of. If he'd been asked, heaven forbid, about _what kind of woman was his ideal_ , Yokozawa honestly didn't know how he would take it--there was no way Kirishima could respond to such a probing inquiry that wouldn't ruffle Yokozawa's feathers one way or another, he had to admit, so best to let sleeping dogs lie. 

He flipped to the next page--in the top right, Kirishima had a broad smile, like the interviewer (and here Yokozawa had to remind himself that it was _Kayama_ sitting there evoking these expressions) had just said something incredibly witty and endearing. _'Just an interview, just for show,'_ he repeated in his mind like a mantra, unconsciously tracing the line of Kirishima's jaw with one finger, before hastily turning the page with a frustrated growl.

Another full-page shot--this time with Kirishima relaxing in an armchair, one leg dangling off while the other draped over the arm of the chair and quirking a confident smirk at the camera, as if they were sharing a private joke. Every single shot in the editorial was full of dark glamor, richness and elegance on par with the hotel the shoot had been held in, with Kirishima's relaxed demeanor and charm radiating palpably off the pages.

Yokozawa deepened his frown--this wasn't the Kirishima he knew, and certainly nowhere near the one he loved. This was a posable doll putting on a face for others that would sell magazines, a false front that seduced and charmed and lured others in but was no more _real_ than the ageless, flawless models dotting the rest of the pages of the magazine.

Swallowing thickly, Yokozawa closed his eyes and took a breath--then reached down to palm himself. Nothing. Just a flabby lump of flesh that may have twitched a bit from the attention but showed no other sign of being affected by the images in the least--which, of course it didn't. Why should he react to a few nice shots of Kirishima in a suit with overly-styled hair and that shit-eating grin that made Yokozawa want to slap him more often than kiss him?

Instead of Kirishima sucking on a cigarette, give him Kirishima mutilating a hard-boiled egg in an effort to peel it.

Instead of Kirishima favoring Kayama with a chuckle and a grin for show, give him Kirishima waxing melodramatic about some project Hiyori had earned praise for at school and subsequently collapsing into a loud fit of laughter as she dove in to tickle him mercilessly for embarrassing her in front of her "Oniichan". 

Instead of Kirishima languidly relaxing in the expensive cushions of some stuff armchair, give him Kirishima slumped inelegantly at the edge of the sofa, head tilted back and softly snoring with pages from a half-finished check falling from his fingers.

Instead of _Editor-in-Chief Kirishima Zen_ , give him _Kirishima-san_. He'd take the latter over the former any day of the week, no matter how much grief the guy caused him, because _that_ man was real, alive, breathing and warm and overflowing with love for the people he cared for. There was absolutely no comparison.

Yokozawa licked his lips and hastily flipped the magazine closed, shoving it off to the side and twisting around to grope for his cell phone on his night stand. He snapped the cover open and drew up his recent calls list, thumb positively vibrating as he scrolled down the few names to _Kirishima Zen_ and pressed _Call_.

Two rings in, and the call connected. _"…You know, I know I told you to call me if you needed anything…but I didn't seriously expect you to follow through."_ The forced amusement was clearly meant to overly the confusion and concern evident in his tone, especially when he added after a moment's pause when Yokozawa didn't immediately snap at the bait, _"…Something wrong?"_

Yokozawa swallowed, mouth dry, and wished he'd thought this through a bit better; he'd just wanted to hear the guy, hear his voice--something _genuine_ and tangible, not like the pictures on the pages. "…No," he responded at last, "I mean--no, nothing's wrong."

 _"Okay…"_ He let the silence stretch, likely wondering if Yokozawa was going to fill it, to explain himself. He'd have a long wait. _"So--what then, you just wanted to hear my beautiful voice, dulcet tones whispering sweet nothings into your ear?"_ This must have given him an idea, for he continued with a roughness to his tone, _"Or are you finally gonna take me up on the 'phone sex' thing? Cause if so, I'm all--"_

"How're the meetings going?" he interrupted stiffly, closing his eyes and cursing mentally; this had definitely been a bad idea, and even steering the conversation to business was just going to raise more red flags. "You've been down there almost a week; you've got to have gotten somewhere with the negotiations, right?" He knew Kirishima couldn't give out details, but sketching out the general idea ought to be fine.

Kirishima sighed audibly over the phone--not in irritation, but in genuine exhaustion, it sounded like, and Yokozawa's brows furrowed in concern. _"You'd think. But then you'd be wrong. You wouldn't believe what stubborn assholes these pricks can be when it comes to protecting their bottom line. And I know something about dealing with stubborn assholes."_ Even Yokozawa had to snicker at that, unconsciously pressing the receiver closer to his ear and closing his eyes, calming his breathing. _"…I wish you were here."_

"…Huh?"

Kirishima snorted at the dumbfounded response. _"I said I wish you were here. You'd chew these idiots up and spit them out--we'd have had our movie deal hammered out by the second day and could've been soaking up the sun on the beach the rest of the time."_ He laughed at himself, but it quickly died away when Yokozawa didn't respond. _"…Hey, are you seriously okay, Takafumi?"_

"Yeah…" he responded distantly, phone clenched in one hand as he slowly rubbed himself through the thin pajama pants he wore with his free hand, the heel of his hand a poor substitute for another willing body, but doing the job. "Just…" He swallowed, aware how rough his voice had to sound as he lifted up onto his knees and began to palm himself with intent. "How…the hotel, what's it like…?" And fuck, _fuck_ was he seriously doing this? Getting off on _a platonic phone conversation_?

A pregnant pause, and then, _"…Not the worst place we've been put up before. At least I get my own room; the perks of being editor-in-chief I guess."_ He trailed off, not elaborating more, and Yokozawa bit his lip almost to the point of drawing blood, hoping to get this over with as soon as possible. Honestly, he hadn't called Kirishima up for this, had just-- _needed_ , needed to hear him speak, to say something to Yokozawa, anything, even _goddammit, I was asleep you stupid jerk--some of us have meetings first thing in the morning._ He hadn't meant to be lulled into some fugue state where he couldn't control himself or his actions and instead followed the baser instincts that reminded him of all the other circumstances under which he'd heard that lilting, amused laughter right in his ear--and his breath caught in his throat as he swiped a finger over the tip of his member, the fabric between providing an interesting sensation. _"…Fucking hell, Yokozawa."_

"Wh--wha…t?" he managed, not very convincingly.

_"I was really only mostly joking about the phone sex thing."_

Yokozawa wanted to whimper with humiliation, but grit his teeth and shoved it aside; there was nothing to be done for it now, if Kirishima had caught on to what he was doing, so he might as well get all he could out of this while it was _happening_ , "Not--this isn't--" he tried, but settled for, "Fuck, just--keep talking to me. Something, anything," and his breathing was getting a bit stilted and labored as he let himself go.

He caught some muffled scrambling over the line, with Kirishima hissing curses to himself. _"Shit, shit--just, give me a minute dammit, I want to--"_

"Fuck no," Yokozawa snapped, but it came out half as a plea when his tone took on a whining element, "Dammit, just--give me a break here, I don't have time for this shit--"

 _"All right all right fine, just--"_ He swallowed thickly over the line. _"You want me to talk, I'll talk, I'll…"_ He paused, groping for some topic of discussion. _"It's hot as fuck here."_ And for some reason, that was _hilarious_ , and Yokozawa almost barked his laughter, choking when he tried to stifle it before Kirishima realized. _"It_ is. _I have to take like five showers a day."_ And oh, the image of Kirishima in the shower was a nice one to add to the mix--not like that first time, his appearance filling Yokozawa with nothing but confusion and panic, but maybe like the morning before he'd left for this business trip down in Kyuushuu, hair dark with moisture and towel wrapped around his waist as he'd wandered into the kitchen to pester Yokozawa to make him a bentou even though their flight was supposed to leave just after noon.

 _"I won't be able to eat your cooking for a week,"_ he'd whined, draping himself over Yokozawa's shoulders and kissing the bit of exposed skin where nape merged into shoulder blade. Yokozawa had rolled his shoulder to shake him off, shivered, and made a fucking _amazing_ bentou if he did say so himself.

" _Fuck_ …" he hissed, mostly to himself, as he loosely cupped his shaft and worked his fingers around it through to cloth--but Kirishima must have caught his curse, for he quickly followed it up with similar motions.

 _"This is_ torture _you know…"_ he groused good naturedly. _"Maybe I'll just leave you some lewd pictures next time I'm out of town; phone sex is clearly not working out like I'd imagined."_

Yokozawa opened his mouth, ready to explain that he didn't think pictures would help, but wisely shut it again, clenching his jaw tight in case he got it into his mind to say something stupid like that again. Instead, he returned, "'S your own damn fault."

 _"How the hell is a mandatory contract negotiation for movie rights 'my own damn fault'?"_ But it must have been rhetorical, for he followed up a moment later with a hissed, _"Shit, are you close?"_

"The fuck does it matter--just come if you feel like coming."

_"Wanna…do it at the same time."_

"Well too bad; I got off like thirty seconds ago."

Kirishima laughed audibly, _"Asshole. You did not."_

"Nah, I didn't…" he allowed, smiling to himself. _Shit_ the guy had a nice laugh--maybe not when he was making fun of Yokozawa or smugly congratulating himself on some inane accomplishment, but when he was genuinely amused, _happy_ … His breath hitched in his throat. "'M…close though…close…"

 _"All right all right--just give me…"_ But he must have misjudged himself, and in the next beat he was cursing and muttering Yokozawa's name in a torrent of _Takafumi, Takafumi_ with a reverence bordering on _worship_ , and Yokozawa quickly followed to the sounds of Kirishima climaxing in his ear, staining his underwear and pajama bottoms with stickiness. He continued to twitch and tremble for several long moments after, almost drifting off at one point to the relaxing sound of Kirishima breathing in his ear. _"…So, same time tomorrow?"_

" _Good night_ ," he ground out, flushing darkly now that his senses were starting to return as the weight of what he'd just done settled down around him.

_"Mmm, love you too, My Darling~"_

"Whatever," he finished with, then grimaced as he added with a bit more genuine feeling, "…Just…come back soon."

 _"…Don't have to tell me twice."_ And he blessedly hung up, freeing Yokozawa from the awkward task of saying their goodbyes. He glanced down at himself and scowled at his state--the least he could've done was at least shucked his bottoms and underwear so there'd be less laundry and cleanup to attend to, but whatever had come over his to convince him that jerking off to Kirishima's chatter about what they'd had for dinner their second evening in Fukuoka was a _good_ idea had left him bereft of much sense regarding related matters.

He sighed to himself and rolled off the bed, toddling on jelly legs to his bathroom, and made a mental note to pester Kirishima about what he wanted for dinner when he got back on Sunday evening. The guy would probably be exhausted from traveling and eager to get home--and the last thing Yokozawa wanted to have to break to him was that he was going to have to wait any longer than necessary to eat his cooking again.


	50. Wall

Kirishima frowned, glancing around the empty room. There were a few boxes still piled up in the corner--boxes which would likely sit unattended until next weekend--and the bed was turned down with Yokozawa's suit for the next day hanging on the closet door, but there was no sign of the man himself, and this late in the evening, that was a rarity. The guy liked to go to bed frustratingly early even on the weekends; for him to not be curled up under the covers with some tedious tome in his hands was strange indeed.

"You're blocking the door," came a muttered gripe from behind, and Kirishima jumped in his skin, quickly skittering out of the way as Yokozawa shoved past him, a towel around his neck and features flushed. He watched Yokozawa busy himself about the room--the toothbrush he was shoving into his toiletries bag said he'd just been finishing readying himself for bed, and Kirishima wondered idly why he hadn't noticed the bathroom light was on. His curious gaze must have been too much for Yokozawa to bear, though, for he at length grunted, "…Can I help you?" without glancing up.

Kirishima paused, gaze flicking about the room--four walls little less austere than the ones Yokozawa had left behind. "Just…wanted to make sure you're settling in fine."

"I've only stayed the night a few dozen times before, you know."

"Sure. But you're not just _staying the night_ tonight." He watched carefully, alert for any false moves on Yokozawa's part in response to the prodding language, but found none. He took a deep breath and crossed his arms over his chest, trying to affect a casual demeanor and brace, unruffled front. "So, shall we celebrate your first night in your new abode as is _proper_?" Yokozawa finally looked him in the eye, if only to throw a sharp glare over his shoulder, and Kirishima snorted, raising a hand in surrender. "Fine fine…I can wait til the weekend if need be." And here, Yokozawa just rolled his eyes. Which was his way of agreeing, Kirishima figured, and his lips quirked up into a smile.

Yokozawa quietly zipped his toiletries bag shut before standing, opening his mouth like he wanted to say something, and quickly rethinking the decision, muttering, "Well…good night, I guess."

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Kirishima sing-songed, pushing away from the door-jamb he'd been leaning against and sauntering casually over. Yokozawa eyed him warily, almost visibly coming on-guard, and Kirishima waved a hand around the room. "I believe it's customary to say something when you arrive home."

Yokozawa's lips purse, like he was actively trying to keep from having to say it, but at length, he released a labored sigh and ducked his head, the flush from before back staining his cheeks. "I'm…home," he managed, barely lost in the space between them, so grudgingly was it given, and if Kirishima hadn't known him so well, he might have been offended, might have worried that Yokozawa truly wasn't all that thrilled to have finally given in and packed his things up to settle into their little guest room. But he _did_ know Yokozawa, _did_ have faith that this was little more than a demonstration of his inability to accept that he deserved happiness, that it was all right to _be_ happy, to let Kirishima and Hiyori love the _shit_ out of him. To be part of their family.

He snapped a hand out, snaking it around Yokozawa's neck while drawing him close in a flash, chests bumping as he buried his face in the place where shoulder melded into neck and breathing in deeply. He smelled like crispy mint toothpaste and fresh soap, was warm and solid in Kirishima's arms, and when fingers tentatively came up behind him, cupping at his shoulder blades and just resting there for a long moment, Kirishima released all the pent-up tension that had settled across his shoulders the whole long day. The guy was finally _here_ , wasn't going to only cook breakfast on weekends, wasn't going to rush to make his train in the evenings after bidding Hiyori good night. His voice was rough and muffled as he spoke into the flesh beneath his lips, "…Welcome home."

He could feel Yokozawa nod his head, whispering again if only just to remind himself, "…I'm home," and Kirishima realized he could definitely get used to hearing Yokozawa say that. After a moment's silence, though, Yokozawa seemed unable to bear what he would've likely termed too 'sappy' an embrace, and muttered, "…So what're you gonna nag me about now that you've finally got me here?"

Kirishima snorted--until an idle thought passed through his mind, intriguing in its innocence, and he pulled back, placing Yokozawa at arm's length and thoroughly enjoying the confusion on his features that all but audibly asked _why'd we stop hugging?_ "Well…" he began, then couldn't stop the corner of his lip from quirking up the way it tended to do when he was thinking something that he knew would really irritate Yokozawa. "You're a Kirishima now, so don't you think it's a little weird to go around calling one of the people you live with 'Kirishima-san'?"

Yokozawa cocked an incredulous brow at him. "That's…most people aren't living with others they're not related to, though."

"We could get hitched."

" _Plus_ ," he continued, ignoring the suggestion like he ignored all of Kirishima's wild fantasies, "I'm not a Kirishima just because I've moved into your cramped guest room."

"It's not cramped," Kirishima returned, glancing around nervously-- _was_ it cramped?--and brushed off his concern with, "And I reiterate, we could get hitched. Then you'd officially be a Kirishima."

Yokozawa snorted, pulling away and turning back to the bed to busy himself fluffing his pillow. "And why the hell would I want to be a Kirishima anyway?"

"Well," Kirishima started, "Our kanji look nicer than yours for one--" Yokozawa's glare was like acid, "--plus, I won't lie and say I don't get a little jealous."

Now the expression waxed genuinely confused, concern tinging the edges of his tone, "…Jealous? Of what?"

Kirishima shrugged, shoulders slumping a bit, because much as he was teasing still, there was a thread of truth in it all that he couldn't fake, and Yokozawa always managed to call him on his shit regardless. "You call Hiyo by her name."

Color flooded his cheeks, and he sputtered, language stilted, "Just--she's a kid, and you were alread 'Kirishima'-san, and she's a _kid_ , I mean what else was I supposed to--"

"Geez, calm down, idiot--" He forced a laugh and physically placed his hands back on Yokozawa's shoulders giving him a gentle shake as he ducked his head to look him in the eye. "I wasn't suggesting anything by it, just…" Yokozawa raised a brow, lips pursed in disbelief. "Well, okay--maybe I was suggesting _a little_."

Yokozawa huffed, rolling his shoulder to shake loose. "Gotta turn every fucking discussion into some joke--"

"I wasn't," Kirishima interrupted, tone flat and eyes a bit steely. It was the only way to deal with Yokozawa when he got ridiculous ideas inside his mind; sometimes a firm response was the best reassurance, with gentleness after to soothe bruised egos. "I wasn't jok--" He cut himself off and licked his lips, glancing away--at the lamp on the bedside table, the tie looped around the doorknob, the box labeled _books_ in the corner. "I mean, it does kind of irk me, a little, when I think about it." He scratched his neck, feeling a bit less like a middle-aged father and more like a middle-schooler in front of his crush.

He could hear the shame in Yokozawa's voice without having to see it written on his face. "…Well, you never made a big deal about it before…"

"You never seriously _asked_ about it before."

"Because I always assumed 'Kirishima-san' was fine!"

"You think I just call you _Takafumi_ to get a rise out of you?"

" _Yes_." Which, Kirishima had to admit, wasn't entirely untrue, and he closed his mouth before snapping back a response, pausing to think this argument through. Yokozawa snorted in amusement, obviously aware that he'd won that exchange. "…If it was so damn important to you, you should've _said_ something." 

"I'm saying something now, aren't I?" he grumbled in response, feeling the tiniest bit petulant and not at all apologetic about it, but he winced at the tone nonetheless; this wasn't how he wanted Yokozawa's first night with them to end. "I--sorry, I just…guess I didn't realize it was kind of a big deal to me until I said it out loud." He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it with a sigh. "I'm heading to bed--you turning in?"

"I--" Yokozawa blinked, thrown. "Yeah, I mean--yeah." He wiped a hand over his face and shook his head. "I'm beat; you'd better not kick me out any time soon--I don't want to have to lug all my shit anywhere else any time soon."

Kirishima snorted. "Sorry, you're stuck with us. We're a tenacious bunch, I won't lie." Yokozawa returned the amused chuckle. "Anyway--g'night." And with a wave, he shifted in place and took a step toward the door--

\--when Yokozawa snapped a hand out to grab at the hem of his shirt, fingers clenched knuckle white in the material. Kirishima glanced down, brows knit in confusion, before his features relaxed slowly, but surely, and he opened his mouth, starting softly, "Yokozawa, you d--"

"I'm home…Zen-san."

If he hadn't been less than an arm's length away from the guy, he probably wouldn't have heard it at all, so quietly was it muttered--but the volume did nothing to tamper the emotion, the genuine _feeling_ the words related, more than just what Kirishima wanted to hear parroted back to him--really honestly _meant_.

Kirishima swallowed thickly, still staring down at the fist clenched in his shirt, and had to consciously remind himself that he'd already agreed to put off any private moments until the weekend, to ask for more would be pushing it right now--but he really just needed something, some little _something_ , because the emotion in his chest needed to come out somewhere, and that 'somewhere' needed to be shared with Yokozawa. He shifted back to face Yokozawa, arms lifting up in one smooth motion to slide his fingers just along the prickly jaw that would need shaving in the morning, likely, and he pressed their lips together gently, rejoicing at the way Yokozawa's jaw dropped open just a hair as they came together--and while Kirishima had to actively work to keep himself from ratcheting up the force of the kiss, Yokozawa indulged him for a few silent moments, letting him impress upon Yokozawa bodily everything that he was feeling. Yokozawa was a _great_ guy like that--he didn't like to talk about his feelings, sure, but this was the next best thing.

When Kirishima pulled back after a long moment, lips puffy and wet and breathing labored, Yokozawa whispered gruffly, "…You gonna do that every time I say your name, now?"

Kirishima's lips twitched in amusement, "…Maybe just until I get used to it. Wanna try and work the kinks out of me?"

"Idiot," was the all-too-expected response--but he still kissed Kirishima again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that, ladies and gents, is the end! Or at least, the end of the set of prompts I dug up when I first started this behemoth...*glances* wow, over a year and a half ago! I don't think I intended it to be this long--DEFINITELY didn't intend to write this much (I honestly only meant for them all to be about the length of that very first chapter, if not less!), but I sure am glad I did!
> 
> This definitely will not be the last time I write for Trifecta, but I've got a little AU in mind for them that I'm going to be working on next, so please look forward to a little deviation from the canon line that I hope will still appeal!
> 
> Thanks for your support--this is the longest thing I've written in a while, and I'm so glad it was for my OTP!


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